


Ineffable Plan

by Melodious329



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Hurt Aramis, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-11-27 06:26:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18190940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melodious329/pseuds/Melodious329
Summary: A prophecy, an angel trapped in human form, ancient spellbooks that conjure demons.  When Richelieu sends the (now four) Musketeers to hunt down a prophecy, they are thrown into a mystery featuring forces beyond their imagining.  Aramis knows the most about religious prophecies, but will his own secrets lead them astray?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: I wanted to say that this is an alternate universe where Angels and demons and faeries and goblins all exist...and then I realized that describes what people believed at that time period. The early modern period saw a rise in witch hunts and books in ceremonial magic. There was a belief that magic could be studied like any other science.
> 
> FYI, this fic is finished and I just need to edit some difficult parts.

Athos petulantly stomps his way through the palace hallways, leaving the younger d’Artagnan to hurry after him. They’ve been summoned by the Cardinal, supposedly for a recent development concerning the king’s safety, but Athos is always suspicious of the Cardinal’s motives. The red guard scrambles after the two musketeers as Athos pushes open the door to the Cardinal’s office, entering without an invitation. The effect is unsatisfying when Richelieu appears to be unsurprised. The older man gives them a look down his long nose before simply standing from his desk.

“There has been a prophecy,” Richelieu starts and Athos struggles not to roll his eyes. Prophecies are not his problem. In fact, he’s not interested in the church at all. God didn’t save his brother nor did prophesies warn him about his wife. It would appear that such petty lives are beneath the attention of God.

“This is a threat to his majesty’s sovereignty,” Richelieu continues as if he is speaking to some pupil. “It is about the Angel.”

“You mean that old prophecy that there is an Angel here on Earth, living among us in France?” Athos objects. “It’s been twenty years since I heard anything about it.”

“Well, there’s been another prophecy,” Richelieu snaps. “And this one will lead us to find him.”

“Why do we want to find him?” Athos asks. “Should we not leave him to the Lord’s work?”

“This is the work of a servant of the devil,” Richelieu explains coldly. “A witch must have found the Goetia Grimoire, an ancient text that contains the knowledge…”

“Of heaven and hell,” Athos finishes. He is a learned man, after all, and he will not be subjected to being schooled by this buffoon. Even if the subject is rather esoteric, only believed, in his opinion, by superstitious serfs and scholars with too much time on their hands. “A Grimoire contains the names and summoning rituals for every demon in hell.”

“The Goetia also contains the name of every angel,” the Cardinal interjects. “The Angel was summoned and trapped in a human body, against his will. And now he is here in Paris.”

“And you’re going to rescue him? Are you hoping for a reward in this life, or the next?” Athos chastises. He risks a look at d’Artagnan, knowing that he’s setting a bad example for the younger musketeer by talking back in such a way.

Richelieu, however, never rises to the bait. “Your king has given you orders, musketeer.” Then he simply outlines the details of the prophecy and gives him their marching orders. The details are scant, not that Athos was expecting a prophecy to be of much help. But it’s not until they’re turning to leave that Richelieu throws out, “Hopefully Aramis can provide his expertise.”

Athos nearly growls as he leaves and d’Artagnan hurries after him in confusion. The younger man barely waits til they’ve cleared the door before asking what the Cardinal means. But Athos is too busy with his own thoughts to respond. The Cardinal wouldn’t deign to ask Aramis for his help and admit that the insufferable man is devout. Anyone who knows Aramis knows that the musketeer is very religious. Their fellow musketeer is often found on his knees in chapel, fingering his rosary beads or kissing his crucifix, and always has his Book of Hours at hand. He is keeps up to date on all the prophecies and every new treatise from learned religious philosophers. But while he is committed to his faith, clearly he is not as faithful to the tenets of the church such as chastity and nonviolence.

“The church sees much of Aramis’ behavior as counter to his professed faithfulness,” Athos finally answers the boy. “The feeling is mutual.”

&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&

Alone in his rented rooms, Aramis stands at his washbasin, absently staring into his imperfect mirror. He’s late, which isn’t, in itself, too unusual and he knows that Porthos will be by soon to collect him. He didn’t see the other musketeer last night as he had an appointment to translate some poetry for a wealthy widow. He’s tired and not the tired one would expect from spending a night pleasing a beautiful woman. Finally, he moves to splash his face with water and reach for his comb and hair oil. When feeling melancholy, he takes extra time with his appearance, desperate that no one see his inner turmoil.

“Remember to burn any hair in your comb,” a voice interrupts his musing.

Aramis doesn’t turn, unafraid of the sudden voice though there were no footsteps, no sound of the door opening. He knows who the speaker is, has heard these voices his whole life. Carefully, he collects the hair from his comb and goes to burn it in the fireplace. Wouldn’t want a witch to get ahold of something like hair, after all.

“That porridge is for you,” Aramis says as he turns to look at his guest.

A small man, only about two feet hall clambers onto the chair. The man is older, with a long grey beard and bushy eyebrows, and he’s wearing red shoes and a red pointed hat. Having to stand on the chair to eat doesn’t slow him down at all as he pulls the steaming bowl closer. His name is Hamo and he’s a lutin, a house spirit.

Many children in France tell stories of lutins, swear that they’ve seen glimpses of their red caps, that they’ve seen the evidence of their help and their mischief. But for Aramis, lutins and other Fée have ever been his friends, sometimes his only friends. He sees them in every house, in every well, and every standing stone. He recognizes them in their many forms, as cats and dogs and birds.

“I put honey in it. Got a little pot at the market yesterday,” he chuckles at the way that Hamo hums a bit in appreciation but doesn’t stop eating for a second.

But the door suddenly opening causes him to whirl around in surprise. It’s just Porthos standing there, but Aramis nervously looks to the now empty table. “Who are you talking to?” Porthos asks, coming in.

Turning away in an attempt to compose himself, Aramis goes back to his dressing table. “Myself,” he mumbles as he watches out of the corner of his eye as Porthos picks up the empty bowl and looks inside.

“Treville sent Athos and the pup to see Richelieu,” the other Musketeer says, getting up and moving to the fireplace where the cauldron of porridge bubbles away.

“Where’s that honey you mentioned?”

“In the cupboard,” Aramis mumbles, not really paying attention. He hates lying to everyone, but especially Porthos. But who would believe him? And if they did, it would only be proof that there is something wicked in Aramis, that he must be an unwitting agent of the devil just as the Fée and the cunning folk. He would rather live with the lies than see Porthos’ horror and disgust.

He’s oiling his moustache when he hears Porthos’steps behind him. Unconsciously, his body relaxes, anticipating the other man’s touch. Big hands gently wrap around his waist and pull him back into well-worn leathers. Lips press against his temple softly.

“Where were you last night?” Porthos asks. “Did you get any sleep?”

Aramis swallows thickly and turns his head away from the hot breath on his ear. This is just another way that he’s failed Porthos. His friends can brush off his melancholy streak as the result of Savoy, but his wandering ways even he can’t explain to himself. Porthos and he make a great team...

The sound of footsteps on the stairs has the two lovers immediately separating. No matter how great they are together, it’s just another secret. They’ll never be able to flirt, or even touch in public. In all likelihood, Athos knows their secret, but they dare not risk being obvious. Aramis could not take the other man’s disgust. And as two deviants, they certainly can’t afford to take others’ discretion for granted.

Casually, Aramis steps over to sit on his bed as Athos and D’Artagnan now enter his room. He must have been particularly late today for everyone to be meeting here.

“Athos!” Aramis greets his brother as he lounges back on one arm. “How is the good Cardinal today?” he teases.

“The same as always,” Athos drawls as he drags one hand through his messy hair. “Demanding. Specifically, demanding that we undertake a quest for this mythical Angel trapped as a human.”

Aramis is surprised into sitting back up. The angel?! An Angel will see through his lies to the wickedness beneath. He is a killer, a sodomite, a devil no matter all his weak excuses of love and justice and honor. Stunned, he doesn’t say a word.

“The Cardinal believes that you’ll be able to contribute some unique knowledge, Aramis,” Athos continues, but his eyes are watching his friend’s face. This isn’t the reaction that he was expecting and his eyebrows draw down in a frown.

Confused, Athos looks over his shoulder at Porthos and raises a questioning brow. But Porthos only shrugs in response and looks concerned himself. Athos holds in a sigh. In the beginning, Athos was not a pleased at the idea of a relationship between musketeers. But despite his initial misgivings, the relationship between the two men is rarely an issue. On occasion, it can even be an asset. But Athos is aware how testy Aramis can be about his faith.

D’Artagnan blessedly speaks up. “Richelieu couldn’t exactly tell us how to recognize this Angel. I’m guessing that it doesn’t look like those illustrations on the Book of Hours?”

Athos notices how Aramis’ fingers twitch as if grasping for his own copy of the popular devotional. Athos knows that the other man owns several copies, in fact, as he has received several expensive ones as gifts. Slowly, he drags his eyes back to their youngest Musketeer and prepares to give out all of the information that he’s received.

“The Angel was born in the South of France, of a human mother who was unaware of her charge. He’s a bastard with no known father,” he starts. “But more importantly for us, he’s in Paris now. I have the name of a nearby church, actually.”

Aramis finally stands and walks to the window, looking down at the scenes of life outside while he chews anxiously on one thumb.


	2. Chapter 2

Aramis removes his hat and follows his brothers into the darkened interior of the church.  The door closing behind them seems to block out the bustle of the city and he feels the familiar peace of the space.  Saint Sulpice is the closest church to the garrison, just a small parish church in the midst of the huge ornate behemoths in Paris.  This isn’t a place to see and be seen by his next benefactor. It’s convenient as a place of fervent prayer, and he is often to be found in a side chapel.  He never went to church services with his mother, they weren’t exactly welcome, but she was very concerned with his state of grace. It broke her heart as she slowly realized what was wrong with him.

He stops briefly at the holy water font and dips his fingers into the placid water.  A sunbeam falls across his face from the windows above him and he closes his eyes as he crosses himself.  Without conscious thought, his feet take him from habit to the small chapel of the Virgin Mary, walking away from the other musketeers.  Another man is leaving as he approaches. Aramis looks the man over, noticing that the man is slightly shorter than himself, a bit older, with brown and grey hair pulled back in a tie.  He notices, but then he shakes his head and continues walking. Are they to interrogate every man here about heavenly origins? Or are they expecting their quarry to suddenly sprout wings?  Aramis is capable of spotting most supernatural beings, but he doesn’t think that his nature allows him to view heavenly bodies. 

His eyes, instead, are drawn to the beautiful marble statue of Mary.  He has spent hours on his knees here praying for her intercession, all the while wondering if all of it is in vain, if his soul is hopelessly damned.  But as his shin hits the kneeler, he leans closer, seeing the glint of something wet on the statue’s face. Slowly, a dot of red begins to seep from the inner corner of the sightless marble eye and then suddenly run down the white cheek.  The statue is crying, tears of red blood creating rivulets that mars the statue’s perfect white visage. Aramis feels judged. He’s been waiting for this, anticipating some rejection from God for his whole life.

Like he’s been kicked, Aramis drops to his knees, only barely remembering to call out to his brother.  “Athos!” he cries. 

Aramis’ eyes are riveted to the miracle as two pairs of footsteps approach.  Athos takes in the scene in a moment before turning to the priest as if for explanation.  “Do you suppose this could be a sign of a Divine spirit in Paris? Something like an angel?” he asks.  

When the priest stutters in reply, Athos turns to his irritating brother, the supposed expert they have on these matters.  Walking up behind the kneeling form, he grasps the man’s bicep, roughly pulling him to his feet. 

“You’re being more of a hindrance than help, right now, Aramis,” he growls.  

Aramis still has a hard time looking away from the statue, but he manages to speak, “There was a man, he was leaving as I was coming into this chapel.  He had dark hair, slighter shorter than I am, slightly older as well…some gray hairs.”

“Ooh,” the priest is prodded into action by the news.  “Yes, that’s Henri. He has been here a lot lately, traveling, you know.  He’s very friendly, always says hello....”

“Did he say anything as to where he’s staying?” Athos asks, impatiently.  

“Yes, yes,” the priest responds to the Musketeer’s tone.  “He’s here from LaBourd and he’s staying with Madame Hubert while in the city.”

“C’mon!” Athos yells at Aramis and then strides away, calling for the other two who have been investigating other parts of the church.

Aramis backs away from the statue slowly, taking one last opportunity to cross himself and then tipping his head in acknowledgement to the priest.  He places his hat back on his head as they step back into the sun, but that unsettled feeling only grows. There’s a sense of apprehension settling over him like a cloud upon a mountain, obscuring the view.  The miracle of the crying statue still feels more like a warning to him, some kind of premonition. He hangs back, wary as they approach the home of Madame Hubert. Like a spectator, he watches Athos knock at the door and call out.  When there’s no response, Athos sends Porthos and d’Artagnan round to the neighbors and the stable. 

Athos is looking vaguely through the windows, when Aramis simply walks past and into house.  Aramis can hear his friend yelling at him, but the words don't register. There’s something in this house, something...something that causes his hair to stand on end, that clenches his chest as if squeezed by a giant fist, that smells faintly of sulphur and smoke.  He feels afraid, an emotion that he normally relishes, but now the sensation has him reaching for a talisman. In his pocket, he keeps a stone that has a naturally formed hole in the middle. Such objects are universally known to keep away evil and Aramis fingers it, anxiously.  If an Angel was ever here, there isn’t one now. So it’s without surprise that he comes across a bloody scene instead. 

On the floor of the parlor is a woman, looking like she’s been mauled by some kind of clawed beast.  Her neck and upper chest bear parallel deep wounds that account for the puddle of blood that covers half the floor.  But it’s not until Aramis removes his hat and kneels down that he sees a second victim. A toddler, dressed in a blue dress and cap lies nearby.  Aramis can barely look and, instead, squeezes shut his own eyes and begins to pray. 

Athos walks in on the scene a moment later.  His eyes widen in surprise, but, otherwise, his expression barely changes despite his horror.  After a shrewd glance at the scene, he backs out of the room and begins to search the rest of the house.  Their silly case of finding an angel among men has become a hunt for justice. He may not have been very interested in Richelieu’s quest, but he is now quite determined.  

He hears footsteps pounding at the front door and hurries back to meet the two others.  “The man’s horse is gone from the stable,” d’Artagnan excitedly reports. “And neighbors saw the lodger riding away moments before we arrived.”

“Where’s Aramis?” Porthos asks and makes a move to push past Athos into the house.  Only when Athos doesn’t move aside does he turn to actually look into his friend’s green eyes.  

“The madame of the house has been murdered,” Athos tells them in a murmur.  “And her child.”

Porthos looks back at the doorway before he subsides and acquiesces to Athos.  “Let’s look through the man’s rooms,” Athos suggests, leading them away from where Aramis lingers.  

Their search doesn’t tell them much more than they already knew.  They now know the man as Monsieur Meschin, but there are few documents related to the man’s business or contacts in Paris or family situation at all.  With no clue as to where else the man might turn in distress, the three of them make arrangements to journey south to the man’s hometown. They’ve migrated back out the front door when Aramis finally emerges.  Replacing his feathered hat, Aramis keeps his face averted from their view as he rejoins them. But then Aramis suddenly stops and changes direction, moving off to a plot of dirt right underneath the window to the man’s lodging rooms.  Kneeling, Aramis proceeds to dig in the dirt with his hands. 

Porthos hurries over, his big hand gentle with concern on Aramis’ arm.  “What are you doing, ‘Mis?”

Aramis doesn’t answer as his fingers touch something flat and hard in the dirt that is not a stone.  Buried only a few inches below the surface, he pulls out an upside down statue. As he holds it up, all four of them stare in confusion at the dirt covered statue of man in a Franciscan monk’s robes holding a child.  

“It’s St. Anthony and the infant, Jesus,” Aramis tells them, though his gaze is stuck on the statue in his hand.  “He’s the patron saint of lost things.”

As they stare, they all share a single thought.  Perhaps someone else is looking for the ‘lost’ angel.

 

*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&

Back at the garrison, they separate to their individual tasks, collecting food, blankets, and medical supplies while Athos informs Treville of their progress.  Porthos hurries to grab his gear and then goes to find their flustered medic. Aramis is meant to be packing his medic’s bag, but, instead, he’s simply standing there fingering the crucifix that he wears around his neck.  Porthos has often admired how the gold chain looks against his lover’s pale skin and downy dark hair. He wants to touch, to soothe, to kiss, but he dare not in the garrison, even if it seems that they are alone. 

Instead, he knocks shoulders with the other man to get his attention.  He doesn’t even know what is so upsetting to Aramis. Porthos just says, “You finished?  We’re all saddled.”

As they ride out of the city gates, Aramis consciously pulls his shoulders back and lifts his chin.  It’s really just like any other day where they are off on a mission while he endeavors to keep his secrets.  Certainly, there are dark spots since his dearest friends have never before been headed directly to his birthplace.  But he’s been keeping these secrets his whole life. One could say that his whole life is a secret, one that he’s very good at keeping.  So instead of moping, he tips his hat to a jaunty angle and puts on the happy, carefree attitude that he’s perfected over his lifetime. In the end, the air is crisp, the sun bright, and he is with the people that he loves.  He and Porthos tease d’Artagnan mercilessly and follow Athos’ lead unquestionably as they make their way south. 

They manage to reach Poitiers, the halfway point, by just after dark, plenty of time to get some dinner at the nearest inn they find.  Stepping inside, they’re hit with heat and sound, lively conversation and entertaining travellers. But Aramis finds that he’s too tired and saddle sore and he doesn’t have the energy to pretend with strangers.   He barely has the energy to take a few bites of his meal. His companions, on the other hand, are up to their usual pastimes. A pretty waitress is trying to flirt with an embarrassed d’Artagnan, Athos has wandered off to a corner, and Porthos...Aramis stands and meets the other man’s eyes across the room where Porthos is joining a card game.  Understanding passes between them in an instant and Aramis turns towards the stairs with a smile on his face. 

Alone in the room that they will share, Aramis makes himself at home, hanging up his leathers on the back of a chair and toeing off his boots beside the door.  Feeling nervous, he digs in his saddlebag for the salt he packed. Salt will keep out every supernatural creature, even friendly ones. The lutin of the house will probably give him an earful, but he doesn’t want to take any chances with Porthos’ life so he sprinkles a pinch for each of the four corners of the room.  Once done, he goes to the washstand and removes his shirt. 

As he drags the wet rag slowly down his chest, he wanders to the window to look out on the town.  Under the eaves of the building next door, a group of goats is settling in for the night. Amongst them, Aramis notices a white goat that is not a goat.  In appearance, it is the same as the other goats, but it is a matagot, a spirit that often appears in the guise of different farm animals. And it knows that he is looking, slowly turning its head to make eye contact.  An idea forms in Aramis’ head, but it will have to wait until tomorrow. He slowly closes the window shutters. 

The door opening surprises him, and it takes him a minute to change tracks from the supernatural to his normal life.  To cover, he turns back towards the wash basin instead of toward his lover, making Porthos chase him. It’s a mutually enjoyable game so he continues to dribble water over his chest as he feels the other man’s presence behind him.  

“Oh, did you want to wash?” Aramis offers, sweetly, neatly sidestepping the other man’s attempt to touch him.  Not bothering to towel dry, he crosses back to the chair that his coat is laid over and sets about unlacing his breeches.  They’re watching each other intently as they set upon their tasks. Porthos also strips to the waist and uses a cloth to clean under his arms and around his neck.  

Quickly, Porthos finishes and stalks his prey again.  He catches Aramis against the door, presses his body into the wood so that their damp skin slides together, their mouths caught in a deep kiss.  But Aramis manages to push him away again and hurries over to the bed. He’s not quite there when Porthos pushes him to fall on the lumpy mattress and then grabs his ankle to flip him over.  Dragged across the bed, Aramis stifles a giggle as Porthos’ heavy weight is then on top of him, holding him down. Aramis loves it and his arms immediately encircle that broad chest. Porthos’ lips are on his neck and he arches his throat immediately.  But he’s not quite through playing. 

After enjoying the attentions, he flips them over and then sits up, kneeling over the other man.  Porthos grins up at him and he can only be smug at eliciting that beloved expression. But then his captive sits up, hands already delving into Aramis’ smalls to grab at his butt cheeks.  Shoving him back in admonishment only makes Porthos laugh, while Aramis gets up to take off the last of his clothing. Aramis grabs at his dick, stroking it a few times as they switch places, sitting on the bed to watch as Porthos follows his lead, nearly tripping whilst trying to remove both layers at once.  Lastly, he grabs the oil from his bag.

Aramis huffs a soft laugh and reaches out for the other man as he comes near.  Arms wrapped tight around Porthos’ hips, Aramis buries his face between the mounds of the other man’s chest, breathing his scent, letting the feel of the other man surround him.  Porthos’ lips barely brush his forehead and hot breath stirs his hair as his kisses drift over to one pebbled nipple. Suckling there, Aramis feels Porthos’ hands run up and down his back before settling in his hair.  Firmly, his head is pulled back so that they can kiss again. 

When he’s pressed back into the mattress again, Aramis doesn’t fight it.  He leans back on his elbows, letting his head drop back to expose his throat and arch his chest.  Porthos takes the blatant invitation, kissing and sucking a line down to the pale abdominal muscles.  As the big man kisses lower, those big hands wrap around Aramis’ thighs, encouraging them to hook over his shoulders.  Aramis draws gentle designs on the dark skin with his fingertips as Porthos takes the head of his cock in his hot mouth.  Lips form a tight circle that rubs over and over his frenulum, just the way that Aramis likes and he lets out a breathy noise of pleasure.  They know each other’s bodies quite well at this point. 

It doesn’t last nearly long enough when Porthos’ arms are wrapping around his chest again.  Aramis barely has time to wrap his legs around the strong waist before he’s lifted and then placed further in the middle of the bed.  Aramis turns onto his belly immediately. He tries to push himself up onto his knees, but Porthos’ weight keep his hips pinned to the bed.  He can only arch his chest up as a hard dick frots between his cheeks. Leaning his head back towards Porthos’ welcoming chest, that huge hand wraps gently around his throat, thumb tracing a gentle line up to his jaw.  

But then that hand is pushing at his shoulder, pushing him down into the musty linen, the palm a hard weight in the center of his shoulderblades.  Porthos kneels on the bed and pulls lean hips over his powerful thighs. He loves this, how it positions Aramis just where he wants, hips lifted, thighs spread open, exposing that dark hole waiting to be breached.  Porthos rubs his oiled thumb over the tight furls of that hole as the lean man squirms, cock held gently between Porthos’ own thighs. His thumb breaches the hole easily as Aramis relaxes with the ease of long practice.  Two thumbs then tug at the outer rim, spreading the oil. 

“I want you,” Aramis whispers.  “I want you so much.”

Porthos doesn’t respond in words, but he doesn’t need to as he positions the flared head of his penis against the hole.  Porthos leans forward as his dick sinks into the tight cavity in a long slow slide. Then he’s pulling at the other man, wrapping his arms around Aramis’ chest until they’re pressed together chest to knees as Porthos thrusts, his hips a continual slow rhythm.  Ever aware of the need of discretion, Aramis only lets out breathy sounds with his face pressed into the mattress, but he can’t help the way that he fidgets, rolling his hips, tensing his shoulders, bending his legs so that his calf rests on top of Porthos’. Only as Porthos’ thrusts became sharper, harder as the bigger man lifts himself a bit to get better leverage does Aramis finally relax, simply lying on the bed as he is pounded.  Porthos can only see his lover’s profile, the forehead is tense and eyebrows drawn down and he leans down to press a soft kiss to sweating skin.

Supporting himself more on his hands, Porthos thrusts faster, becoming arthymic as his orgasm approaches.  He grabs onto a sharp shoulder for leverage as he shoves as deep as possible, cumming inside the other man.  As he rides it out, he bends to rest his forehead against the tense muscles of the pale upper back. Aramis is quiet and patient, having subsided until he’s rolled back over on his back.  He wraps his legs readily around Porthos’ upper back readily as Porthos swallows his cock again. His orgasm is quick as Porthos holds his hips down to the mattress. 

Porthos swallows and licks at the soft fold of skin between Aramis’ leg and torso until Aramis rouses to rub his thumb against the corner of Porthos’ mouth.  He smirks as Porthos kisses the digit. 

The only response is a low rumble and then Porthos pulls himself up the bed to sprawl on his back.  Aramis laughs at the way that the other man’s weight creates a dip in the rush-filled mattress that he rolls into, involuntary curling up against sweaty, hot skin.  It’s nice, though, so he stays, his mouth pressed to Porthos’ shoulder. His body cools, but the bigger man is warm so he snuggles closer as Porthos becomes lax and then begins to snore.  Aramis is desperate to sleep as well, so he presses his face harder into the dark skin, trying to hide from his thoughts. 

But he can’t relax, can’t stop worrying over every little thing.  Eventually, he gets up, grabbing one of the blankets to pull it over Porthos’ sleeping form.  The sound of snoring keeps him company as he washes clean his chest and between his legs. As he pulls his smalls back over his legs, his thoughts return to the matagot outside.  Jittery with anxiety, he grabs his pouch of salt and sprinkles a line on the windowsill as well as the threshold of the door. Porthos looks so vulnerable asleep and he feels dread pool at the base of his spine and fumbles for the crucifix around his neck.  Replacing the pouch of salt in his bag, he grabs his rosary instead. And with a last stir of the fire, he kneels down on the hard wooden floor.

Unfortunately, even when he’s reached the last bead, he doesn’t feel the sense of peace that he normally does.  He leans his forehead on the warm stone of the fireplace and spends a long moment looking at Porthos’ peaceful form, now lying on his side, limbs stretched out over the entire bed.  Smiling at the sight, his fingers twitch with the urge to run over well-loved lines of scars. But he wonders if there would be less scars if not for him. Perhaps Porthos wouldn’t get into so many dangerous situations if he weren’t chasing after Aramis.  Maybe Porthos would meet a nice woman and settle down if he were gone. What if he is damning Porthos’ soul as well? He must be just for the fact that they are two men.

Feeling suddenly trapped within these four walls, Aramis dresses quietly and slips out the door.  It’s still dark outside as he slips down the stairs. The tavern looks strange to him being empty, but then he sees movement, a flash of red.  Stepping off the last stair, he can see around the chairs where here is a small lutin sweeping the floor. No, it’s a lutine. He can only tell because of the skirts that brush the floor, and instead of a beard, she only has long grey sideburns.  

The owners of the tavern must be good people for her to be taking care of the place, but he feels terrible for interrupting her work.  He thinks to sneak away, but she calls out to him, “You are awake, Attendant of God?” 

Aramis frowns in confusion at what she calls him, but he is used to supernatural creatures describing him in various ways both flattering and not.  But an apology is never remiss, “I’m sorry for the intrusion at this hour, madam, I…”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” the lutine shushes him and suddenly she’s by his side, ushering him into a chair as nice as any old lady that Aramis has charmed in the market.  “How about some porridge now?”

Near instantaneously, a bowl of steaming porridge appears before him and a cup of watered wine which he reaches for.   “Don’t go to any trouble on my account,” he says, though he knows there’s no use. 

“No trouble, no trouble,” she says, before hopping up on a chair across from him.  “Hamo has told us all what a good tenant, you are.”

Aramis has given up on understanding how information passes amongst the supernatural.  “Well, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Madame…”

“Oh, how well-mannered you are,” she titters.  “You can call me Eulalie.”

“It’s a pleasure,” he murmurs and salutes her with the cup she poured him.  

“It’s so surprising, you know,” she continues.  “I heard your whispered prayers upstairs, and can see that icon that you wear around your neck.  Normally your kind wouldn’t associate with the likes of us.”

Aramis bows his head and suddenly wishes for an entire barrel of wine.  That is the crux of the matter, isn’t it? If he were serious about redeeming his soul, would he not turn his back on the Fée?  Cease all communication with them? If they are, as the church believes, products of the devil with no hope of salvation? But he has seen evil, perpetrated by man against his brother.  He doesn’t believe that Fée like Hamo and Eulalie are less deserving. He doesn’t believe that they are less deserving of salvation than himself. 

“Hamo is my friend,” he answers quietly, because he knows that if he is certain of nothing else.  In some ways, the lutin knows him better than Porthos does, and Hamo has never judged him. “He is just as worthy as any other, in my eyes.”

“You are such a good egg, dear,” she says.  “But I am sorry to see you awake in the middle of the night, though not surprised.  Hamo mentioned your nightmares.”

Aramis doesn’t want to talk about this either and he drains his cup of wine.  He and Porthos did not become intimate until after Savoy so it was easy enough to blame his frequent nightmares on that terrible experience.  In truth, he has always been plagued with them. It used to frighten his mother. She had no idea what to do with a child that woke up night after night screaming.  His dreams are a bloodbath, entire cities destroyed and visions of horned devils with forked tongues. 

He doesn’t realize that he’s been staring into his empty cup for a long time until Eulalie is suddenly be his knee.  “Here give me your cup, little cabbage. You just sit here for as long as you need.”

His throat is so dry that he can barely swallow and he takes the refilled cup gratefully.  He doesn’t know how long that he sits there before he finally gains the composure to get on with his day.  Looking up, he speaks up to the seemingly empty room. “Eulalie? Do you know where the nearest butcher is?”


	3. Chapter 3

After he visits the butcher, the matagot follows him as he walks through the slowly waking town.  The Fée is now in the guise of a white cat who waits patiently for the half a chicken he bought. Casually, Aramis walks to the edge of town, crossing over a small stream to get to a small copse of woods.  When he is assured of privacy, then he unwraps the meat and sets it down on the ground. 

Patiently, he sits down and leans back against a tree as the cat devours its offering.  The air is cold as the sky is just beginning to lighten. The tense conversation with Eulalie lingers in his mind as his breath lingers in the air.  His thoughts drift back to Savoy as he tips his head back to gaze up at the bare branches swaying above him. How could he ever be considered more worthy than anyone?  Porthos thinks him lucky,  _ lucky _ that when all of his brothers died in Savoy, he lived.  Frozen, injured, and alone, he sat against a tree just like this and mourned.  He might have died there, before help ever came, if not for the pity of the Fée.  A Barbegazi, a creature of the snow that sometimes sees fit to help those who have lost their way, kept him alive until the rescue arrived.  As if he were more deserving than any of the rest of them.

“So messenger, what do you have need of me?” the cat asks in a rough voice between licks to its paw.  “Is it riches you seek? Or luck for that big man of yours?”

“Nothing like that,” Aramis replies, his hands fiddling nervously in his lap.  “I need information.”

He doesn’t need to explain further than that as the matagot interrupts, “I believe I have the kind of information that you seek, messenger.”

Aramis scrambles to stand up as the cat begins to walk back towards town without a backward glance.  But with every step they take his stomach turns into stone, a weight of anxiety in his gut. Eventually, the matagot stops at a house no different from its neighbors, disappearing as Aramis approaches.  There on the front door is a painted sigil, a symbol of the demon, Purson. It looks like some kind of vase with a even-sided cross in the middle and a pitchfork on the right. Aramis has no reason to recognize the sigil.  He knows these things are recorded in grimoires, books that hold the names and summoning rituals of all the demons of hell, but he has never even seen such a book. And yet he knows this symbol like he knows his own name. 

He reaches a hand out to touch before remembering himself and pulling the offending hand to his breast.  Fear hits him like a punch to his chest, and he wants to keep his brothers far away from here. But this is not a wayward creature like the Tarasque that can simply be scared away with no one the wiser.  This time, he can’t hide. 

When he makes it back to the inn, the tavern is full of men shouting and carrying on as they eat their breakfast and begin their day.  As he moves through the crowd though, it’s easy to locate his brothers. The other three musketeers are all sitting at a table quietly, a calm port in a turbulent sea.

“Where have you been?” Athos asks at the same time as Porthos pipes up, “Have you slept at all?”

“There’s something you need to see,” Aramis says instead of answering.  “In a house near the creek.”

d’Artagnan slurps up the rest of his porridge as the others stand.  Porthos moves to hover close to the sharpshooter as they leave the tavern again.  “I didn’t enjoy waking up this morning,” Porthos chastises him, careful to only speak in a veiled way of about their sleeping arrangements.  

“Yes, well, I thought that you’d appreciate the silence,” Aramis teases, but he doesn’t meet the other man’s dark searching eyes.  He doesn’t want to worry the other man. Porthos worries too much for him. 

“You look like shit, Aramis,” Porthos growls, giving up the subtlety.  “You’re not sleeping.”

“I’m fine,” Aramis snaps.  But one glance at Porthos’ stricken face makes him immediately regret getting upset.  “It’s nothing,” he says in a softer tone as he absently fingers his crucifix. 

He can feel the way that Porthos glances at the cross.  It’s easier for him, for the rest of them really. Porthos believes in Christ, but he didn’t grow up with the church.  In the Court of Miracles, they are more apt to believe in hedging their bets, a little bit of this and a little bit of that, they absorb the beliefs of many disinherited immigrants.  Porthos isn’t any more familiar with the folklore of rural people than with catechism, though he has been known to carry any number of good luck charms from far away lands. 

d’Artagnan, on the other hand, is a well-bred country landowner from this area of south western France.  The young Gascan grew up with equal beliefs in both religion and folklore. Many stories of his childhood contain mention of folklore, farmers complaining about the mischief of the korrigans at night or cheering at some miraculous healing attributed to a ribbon of St. Brigid’s mantle.  And then there is Athos who believes in nothing. He holds his own reason above any such superstitions and will surely be deeply disappointed by what Aramis has found. 

As they approach, Aramis begins to drop behind the others, feeling that sense of dread building in his chest again.  D’Artagnan clearly doesn’t feel the same as he rushes ahead. When he sees the sigil on the door, he reaches out just as Aramis did, his fingers brushing the wood.  “What is this?” he asks, naively. 

“It’s blood,” Aramis says in a choked voice, ignoring the look that Athos sends him.  He hates every minute of this. His brothers are looking at this house like they would like at him, if they knew.

Athos pulls his main gauche as he enters the house, but Aramis knows there’s no one inside.  He can feel it. Instead, there is the detritus of a summoning ritual, a painstakingly drawn magical circle from the Goetia with the Divine names written inside, colored black, red, yellow, and blue.  Nearby there is a discarded dish of charcoal, now cool but the scent of the perfumes burnt upon it are still floating in the air. And there again the sigil, this time in yellow as befits the demon’s role as a King in Hell.  It physically hurts Aramis to see, in his chest. Behind his breastbone, it  _ burns _ .  A little gasp of pain escapes his lips, as he walks past his brothers and into the next room where the floor is painted in blood instead of symbols.      

Porthos stands from where he had been kneeling to examine the floor to hurry after his brother.  The blood soaked scene of another grisly murder is waiting for them in the next room. It shouldn’t surprise him, but the viciousness of this crime is hard to stomach, even for him.  He doesn’t want to leave Aramis alone as he prays by another innocent victim, but he stays at the doorway. Athos makes a brief appearance before leaving to investigate the rest of the house.  

Barely holding in a sigh, Porthos ducks his head against the sight before him.  Aramis is always affected by the death of innocents, but he can tell that more is going on here.  The sharpshooter always takes things personally and is always willing to sacrifice himself. He’s becoming secretive and withdrawn as he does about the time that he’s about to run off and do something stupid.  It’s an old routine and, in private, Athos has lamented that d’Artagnan appears to be similarly inclined. But Porthos isn’t stupid. As usual, they will just have to keep an eye out so they can swoop in when Aramis gets himself in a bind.  

Meanwhile, Athos barely resists the urge to kick the magical detritus with distaste as he heads back towards the front door.  It’s inconsequential whether a demon was actually summoned or not as the important thing is another dead body. And behind it all, there is a person responsible for it  They need to find Monsieur Meschin, angel or not. And all they have to go on is the idea that he might return home to LaBourd. Frustrated with Aramis’ secrets, Athos calls out to his waylaid brothers ready to continue their journey.    

They move swiftly through the town until they’re passing the church.  The church bells suddenly begin to ring and Athos’ footsteps hesitate.  He knows it’s well past six, but he squints at the sun, though he knows that it’s not yet noon.  It’s not time for the church bells to be rung. 

 Suddenly, they see the priests rushing about and they hear, “There is no one!  No one is in the belfry!”

d’Artagnan rushes straight inside the church door, but the others stay outside, looking in all different directions as they search for the cause of the commotion.  There are rose bushes lining the outside of the church, dry brambles now as winter closes in, but as they stand there, the bushes suddenly grow leaves, turning green and alive and  _ blooming _ , with white roses.  Transfixed by the sight, they’re staring when a horse and riding are galloping toward them.  

Aramis turns at the sound, recognizing the man from the Paris cathedral as the horse passes them by on the street.  “It’s him,” he whispers, not taking his eyes off the man disappearing in the distance. 

“Dammit,” Athos mutters and jolts into movement, shouting for d’Artagnan as he strides away to collect their things and horses.  

Still Aramis hesitates, bringing one hand to cover his mouth as he turns back to stare in astonishment at the spectacle of the rose bushes.  Porthos is torn, but stays and hovers over his stricken lover. That’s how d’Artagnan finds them when he comes racing out of the church. d’Artagnan doesn’t even notice the blooming roses as he begins to chase after their wayward leader.  d’Artagnan’s departure snaps the other two men into doing the same, first crossing themselves in acknowledgment of the miracle. 

Athos is fit to be tied as they all mount their horses.  This time, their ride is more desperate as they urge their horses to make up the distance, and their stop for the night is in the woods by the side of the road.  They’ve barely had the opportunity to talk on the ride, but Athos’ disapproval lays heavy over them, making them subdued and quiet as they dismount. 

“We leave at first light,” Athos starts as they tie their horses.  “We can’t know if he’s on this road or whether we’ve already passed him.”

They part, each separately going about caring for their horses and setting up camp.  Except Porthos looms behind Aramis, who makes a good show of ignoring him. Not in the mood to be ignored and concerned about the dark circles underneath Aramis’ eyes, Porthos eschews speech as he simply drags the other man away from his precious spoiled horse.  

“You sit,” he whispers fiercely, pushing the smaller man down to the ground.  Aramis fights him, of course, fusses and complains about the half-frozen dirt and tries to stand back up.  Porthos pushes him back down as he drags over a fallen log for them to lean against. He glances at their compatriots briefly before offering, “I’ll take care of your horse.”

“Yes, but not as I would,” Aramis teases as he finally acquiesces.  

Leaning back, Aramis looks over at d’Artagnan who’s busy making their fire.  The younger man is clearly amused at their antics, though he doesn’t look over at them. Aramis’ smile takes over his whole face.  “How does it feel to be so close to home?” Aramis asks, remembering that the boy is the son of an ennobled Gascon land owner. They’re camping just inside the province and they’ll continue through to the mountainous region of what was once Basque land before it was divided between Spain and France. 

d’Artagnan smiles back as he looks up at the other Musketeer.  “There’s no place like Gascony.” Talking about his home always makes the lad’s Gascon accent come out as well as the smiles that are the result of a happy childhood.  It’s good that he can remember those things without the pain of his father’s death overshadowing it all. 

Aramis too knows this landscape around the Pyrenees, the somewhat forbidding rocks, the abundance of caves, the windswept paltry trees.  He also knows what lives inside the caves, what lurks behind the rocks. The Basque people had gods all their own, before the French Celts swept in from Brittany bringing the korrigans and the lutins.  

“Did your father ever bring you to the sea?” Aramis asks, slumping further onto the ground so he can rest his head back on the log.  He drifts near sleep while listening to d’Artagnan’s stories of childhood. 

That’s why he doesn’t realize at first what he overhears.  

“Ah, ah,” a voice calls out in the darkness, a voice that Aramis should recognize.  

“Who’s there?” d’Artagnan queries harshly.  

Porthos is busy glancing over at Aramis worriedly rather than taking care of the horses so he distractedly answers their youngest compatriot, “Who’s where?  You hear something?”

When the unknown voice comes again, it is the sound of laughter, laughing at their confusion.  

“Who’s there?” d’Artagnan says louder, causing Athos and Porthos to move closer to him, both wondering what he is hearing out in the dark.   

The voice this time entices them as it draws the three men together to stare out into the dark forest.  “What if I tell you that I am the devil that you are seeking? What if I killed those fragile humans? What if I knew who the Angel is?”

“Who’s there?” d’Artagnan whispers, a third time and it’s final.  

“No!” Aramis suddenly comes awake as he hears the lad answer the voice a third time.  But it’s already too late, the other three musketeers have disappeared. 

Scrambling to his feet, Aramis frantically looks around, but he can see nothing but the empty campsite.  Their fire is the only light and, outside of its circle, there is only dark woods. Aramis knows what’s just happened. the lupeux, the voice in the dark, the voice of your innermost desires.  It is a Fée so secretive that not even he knows what it looks like. And for those foolish enough to answer three times, it means a watery death. But he doesn’t know where the lupeux will take them.  

There is only one way to find information.   He remembers that d’Artagnan found a nearby spring for water while he was resting, and where there is a spring, there is a melusine.  Listening for the sound of running water, he races off into the dark, fear for his brothers driving him faster. He almost stumbles when he hears the sound of a female voice calling out to him.  Half hidden behind a rock is a beautiful woman, incongruous to see alone in the middle of the forest. It’s not until he moves closer that he can see that she is nude and from the waist down she has two scaled tails that splash in the shallow creek.  

“Child of the heaven,” she calls out to him and he almost wilts in relief.  “Come! Talk with me.”

“My lady,” he pants as he runs a hand through his disheveled hair and effects a small bow.  Because it never hurts to be polite and charming even when he’s desperate. “I would love to sit with you and while away the hours in conversation.  I’m sure that you have seen a lot of interesting things living here.”

“Oh, I have seen things that even you couldn’t imagine from your heaven,” she starts, but he rushes to interrupt her.  

“And I would love to listen all night to your experiences, but my friends are in danger,” he rushes to say.  “They have been taken by the lupeux.”

“Oh,” she says sympathetically, but then she giggles.  “The lupeux never gives up his victims.”

“But do you know where he takes them?” Aramis beseeches, moving closer to her and taking her hand.  “Normally, their victims are drowned.”

“Yes, of course,” she answers.  “Everyone knows that. He pushes them into the river.”

Aramis tries to conceal the desperation that must surely show on his face.  “Your wisdom is unparalleled, mistress,” he flirts with a light kiss to her hand which makes her giggle again.  “And which way is the river? Where does he take them?”

Sighing and sitting back, she waves an arm towards the right.  “There’s a cliff if you follow the riverbank. That’s where he likes to take them.”

“Thank you, beautiful lady,” he says gallantly with a deeper bow before he rushes off.  

As he runs, he begins to hear the water, but the terrain has become rocky, blocking the faint yellow light of the moon so that he can barely see in front of him.  There are dozens of caves in this area and he has the feeling of eyes on him, watching him like prey. Desperate, distracted, and half-blind, it’s inevitable that he trips, his hands and knees colliding painfully with the rocky ground.  A sudden howl rends the air, and he jerks his head up in sudden fear. 

In the entrance of a nearby cave, is a dark silhouette, the size of a huge dog.  Still on his knees, Aramis stares at the creature even as a gust of wind hits him in the face, blowing his hair back.  Then the monstrous dog looks straight at him with red glowing eyes. 

It has the red eyes of the gauko, spirit of the night to the Basque people.  No longer afraid of being mauled, still his heart pounds in his chest as the spirit pronounces his warning, “The night for the Gaueko.  The day for the one of the day.”

It’s a warning to go back to the safety of the fire, to leave the dark forest where supernatural creatures reign, but it’s a warning that he has to ignore.  Pushing himself to his feet, he begins to run. Finally, he sees the river and it’s at least fifty feet down. Keeping the river on his right, he runs uphill, branches whipping in his face, but at least, the moonlight is brighter from up here.  Already at the top of the cliff are three still figures, still captivated by the voice of the lupeux. 

Aramis runs harder, his muscles burning, lungs empty of air even as Athos takes a step forward, dirt crumbling from underneath his foot into the churning waters below.  Diving forward, the long fingers of Aramis’ hand claw onto his friend’s pant leg. Slowly green eyes blink like he’s coming out of a deep sleep, and Athos looks down. The sight of his friend in the dirt seems to bring him out of the supernatural spell.  

He takes a step back and reaches out to the men on either side of him who are already blinking themselves out of their respective trances.  There is only a faint scream of displeasure as the lupeux disappears back into the night. 

“Aramis?” Porthos suddenly asks, staring down at his friend in confusion.  Aramis’ bangs stick to his sweaty forehead and there are scratches on his cheek.  And, of course, he’s lying in the dirt. The larger man grips the collar of the prone man’s jacket and starts to lift.  

“Stop, stop,” Aramis protests, used to the other man’s heavy handedness.  “Would you..put me down.”

Porthos ignores him and pulls him up until he can get his feet underneath him.  Aramis stumbles into Porthos chest even as he brushes the hand away from his clothing.  

The bigger man huffs as he looks at his friend.  “You look terrible,” he states the obvious. Aramis ignores the comment. 

“What happened?” d’Artagnan asks, as he looks around their surroundings.  

Aramis focuses on that comment, and he suddenly explodes.  “You answered the lupeux! Really, I expected a good Gascon boy like you to know better,” he chastises.  

“The lupeux?  Really?” d’Artagnan asks, his confusion giving way to excitement at such an adventure.  He’s heard stories of the lupeux his whole life. Then he becomes defensive. “How was I to know?  We are chasing a demon, after all!”

Aramis shuts his mouth, thinking that that’s a good point.  It wasn’t foolish to assume the voice was the demon, instead.  In fact, they don’t know what an Angel and demon are capable of.  Athos seems to have the same idea. 

“You’re right,” Athos breaks in.  “So we need to be even more careful.  We don’t know enough about what’s going on.”

Then Athos gives Aramis a considering look that makes Aramis turns away in a huff.  d’Artagnan hates when the others seem to communicate without words. Everyone else, including Treville, is left on the outside.  Annoyed, he turns to start the trek back to their campsite. “Where are we? How did you find us?”

Specifically, not looking at Athos, the too-knowing bastard, Aramis speaks to the back of the boy’s head.  “You’re lucky, I woke up in time to hear you answer the third time.”

“That’s crazy that we actually met a lupeux,” d’Artagnan says with a note of wonder.  “And I don’t remember even seeing it.”

“Of course, everything in Gascony would be trying to kill us,” Porthos mutters, putting on his gruffest voice to tease their youngest member.  “I’ll be glad when we go back to Paris.”

Aramis himself will be glad when he can keep his normal life with the Musketeers separate from the supernatural.  And as he looks up over at Athos, he has the thought that the older man agrees. As they begin their trek down the hill, Aramis is just thinking how much easier the walk down is when he hears Porthos curse behind him.  He doesn’t even have time to turn around as suddenly the large lump of the other man rolls past him, heading downhill. Sighing, Aramis hurries after, hoping against hope that the other man hasn’t actually hurt his leg or anything.  Hopefully, it was just a stumble. 

Judging from the big man’s murderous expression as Aramis tries to help him up, his hopes have come true.  Athos stands above them, watching with an irritated face. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like not knowing what’s going on, he doesn’t like his suspicions, and he doesn’t like wandering out this landscape in the dark, not knowing what will be around each corner.  

d’Artagnan kneels to help and that’s when Athos looks up to see an unexpected but encouraging sight.  It’s a dark horse, looking quite fine with a braided tail, and as he approaches it, he can see that it’s already bridled and saddled.  When he approaches, the horse stays calm so he reaches out one cautious hand to grab the bridle. A horse could be exactly what they need if Porthos is injured.  But they need to know if it will bolt so he lifts his foot to place it in the stirrup. 

Aramis hits Athos with a yell, scaring the horse so that it turns and kicks them, sending them extra hard towards the rocky ground.  Athos lands with a grunt of the air leaving his lungs. He’s trying to get his breath back so that he can start yelling when he sees the horse suddenly take off running...towards the river.  He sits up in time to see the horse fall meters from the air into the river with a huge splash. And then it disappears like a rock. 

In shock, Athos looks over at his strange compatriot.  Aramis is groaning and rolling off of a rock, not having even glanced after the horse.  He doesn’t look surprised by anything, despite that this night has been full of nothing but shocking and dangerous experiences.  d’Artagnan then comes rushing over to help him, making Athos feel a little silly that they seem to be falling over like dominos while just trying to walk to their camp.  He’s ready to get out of this forest. There is a reason why he prefers cities and towns and even estates, though he hates to admit it. Forests are wild and full of the unknown.  

“That-that was the Cheval Mallet,” the Gascon boy cries in his face as he grabs an arm to help Athos up.  Athos does not thank him for he really would rather not have the help. d’Artagnan continues talking, though.  “Two in one night...I’ve never, I mean...do you think it’s related?” he suddenly asks. “I mean, it could be meant to slow us down, or maybe the presence of the demon or even the Angel stirred things up…”

Athos looks over at Aramis but his brother is not looking at him, again.  The man is supposed to be their guide to this nonsense, but Aramis has been less than helpful.  In fact, he’s been totally quiet. He hasn’t offered a single theory about what they’ve seen or given an explanation that Athos hasn’t pried out.  Athos has had suspicions about his brother’s anomalous behavior since he met the man, but he has let the man have his secrets. Now it feels like they are hurtling toward a reckoning.  

Porthos approaches with a bit of a limp and grumbles as he looks over Aramis’ sad state.  “I just want to get out of here as quickly as possible. Before anything else happens…”

Aramis nods, but looks distracted and he’s clearly still in pain.  Athos decides to give him a reprieve and get back to walking in silence.  It’s dark and cold and they’re bruised and tired. It’s so late when they get there that Athos tells them with a sigh to just pack up.  The fire is already out and they are sure to ride slower so it will take longer. Might as well get started.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long.

They’re all exhausted, even the horses, so the ride is slower.  d’Artagnan talks nonstop at first, marveling at the night that they had, the Fée that they’ve seen.  But even youth runs out of steam quickly. Athos very specifically doesn’t comment, focusing on sorting through the events in his own mind.  His suspicions are falling together in his mind, even without Aramis’ expert input. But he is a loathe to share his concerns with the other Musketeers and force a confrontation, just yet.  

 It is after noon by the time that the four men finally ride into the city on the border with Spain.  They’re quiet, tired and sore as they lead their horses, approaching the town on foot. Athos only wants to find the nearest tavern with a barrel of wine, but they still need to find their wayward charge.  Spotting a nearby market stall, Athos elegantly sweeps his hat from his head as he gains the acknowledgement of a woman there. He hopes to ask about Msr Meschin, and then where to find that barrel of wine.  

“Excuse me, madam,” he starts.  “I am looking for a friend of mine, a monsieur…”

He doesn’t get to even finish the sentence when the woman is interrupting him, chattering away very fast.  But she isn’t speaking French. He was prepared for the dialect here to be different, but he is well aware of the sound of the Gascon language amongst soldiers in Paris.  But this, he doesn’t recognize as related to French at all. Finally pausing her speech, she sees his confusion and turns to shout and wave her arms at her neighbor. 

After a brief conversation, the other woman addresses him in a semblance of French.  He manages to ascertain the location of both an inn and the residence of Msr Meschin.  Annoyed by the conversation, the weather, and life itself, Athos turns to their resident Gascon as the Musketeers walk away.  

“That wasn’t Spanish,” he says, though to be sure, he turns to Aramis with an arched eyebrow.  Aramis looks back with an innocent expression and a shake of the head. 

“No, I imagine that’s the Basque language here,” d’Artagnan tells them.  

Athos shakes his head, annoyed now at his own thoughtlessness.  He knows of the Basque, of course. The small piece of land situated between France and Spain but containing a people separate from both, persecuted by both.  There were witch trials here about twenty years ago, and the Basque were disproportionately targeted. He is amazed that such foolishness can exist in these modern times of science and logic.  

Without another word, he begins walking.  They drop their horses at the inn’s stable before he leads the others to Msr Meschin’s home.  Whether the man is an angel or not, he may be in a lot of danger so there is no time to waste.  But as they approach the house, he can already tell that no one is home. The house itself is a bit surprising, certainly not what he expected.  It is a very fine house, much like Msr Bonaceiux, but so far from town, from other places of business. According to the papers from the boarding house in Paris, the monsieur is bourgeois, engaged mostly in administering the properties of clergymen and letters of credit.  How had a bastard risen so high? He’s still staring up at the seemingly foreboding structure when he sees an older lady leaving the house. He almost missed her, as her rustic clothing seems to blend into the dark stone of the house. Removing his hat again, he rushes over to greet her, but he can tell immediately that she can’t understand him either.  

With a frustrated sigh, he turns to his companions.  But d’Artagnan only looks embarrassed. “I’m not from here,” he defends himself weakly.  

He’s so focused on their youngest member that he is not paying attention when Aramis steps forward and begins to charm the old lady, answering in that same strange language. The guttural rolled R’s are reminiscent of the Spanish language, but he’s heard Aramis speak it often enough to know it’s not the same.  There are none of the commonalities that exist between French and Spanish.

“She says that the master of the house has not returned home from his trip,” Aramis explains, before turning back to the woman.  

Athos has to literally bite his tongue to keep quiet long enough for the woman has toddle off on her way.  But as soon as she turns her back, he begins to interrogate his annoying friend. “How do you know that language?” he hisses out.  Knowing a language having never heard it before certainly seems like a sign of an angelic nature. 

“I was born in this village,” Aramis says casually as he adjusts his hat and begins to walk back towards the inn.  He knew that this would happen. He had hoped that d’Artagnan would speak the language, but that was a vain hope for one of the landed gentry.

“What?!” Porthos spits out, grabbing his lover’s arm and bringing the whole group to a halt.  “But you lived in Brittany, how could…”

 “I did live in Brittany,” Aramis says, simply.  He’s already decided that he’s not going to act ashamed.  He’ll never be ashamed of his wonderful mother. “But I was born here, in a brothel near the inn that we seek.”

“A brothel..?” d’Artagnan mutters, but he’s drowned out by his companions.  

“But what about your father?” Porthos still queries.  

“Monsieur d’Herblay?  He wasn’t my father,” Aramis says as if he has no idea how Porthos could have assumed such a thing.  He shrugs off the restraining arm and begins walking again. “My mother wanted me to have a better life.  We didn’t exactly have the reputation that would convince anyone in this town to take me as an apprentice.”

Porthos is still stunned at this new information after all this time.  d’Artagnan is simply confused, “But then why would Msr d’Herblay take in..?”  The question is silenced by a look from Athos. 

Athos, indeed, takes the news calmly, assimilating this new information into his suspicions.  He is not shocked. Certainly, he knows enough of the world to understand why a man might take in the son of a prostitute.  

But while Aramis tries to act unaffected, it’s what he doesn’t say that matters.  He doesn’t say how terrified his mother was, how desperate she was to get him out of LaBourd.  After de Lancre arrived and the witch trials began, she would lock him in her armoire, out of anyone’s sight in case he might be accused.  He’d lie there on their clothes, in the dark, for hours. 

“Monsieur d’Herblay was kind to take me in,” Aramis says, diplomatically.  And, indeed, he was not a cruel man, neither in his nighttime visits to Aramis’ room nor in a daily life filled with tutors and chores and running off to the standing stones to dance with the korrigans.  By that time, Aramis had learned to hide his strange behavior, mostly. 

“I even decided to keep his surname when I left, though I dropped the name that he had given me, Rene.  I mean, do I look like a Rene?” he asks d’Artagnan who smiles hesitantly back at him. “I’m much more of an Aramis as my mother named me.  It is a much more romantic name, don’t you think?”

d’Artagnan’s smile widens as the conversation is back to their more comfortable teasing nature.  But he doesn’t have time for a witty answer as a feminine voice mimics them, “Aramis?”

They turn to see a beautiful blonde woman staring at them in shock.  For a moment, they are all still, all staring at each other until the woman flings herself at them in pure giddiness.  “Aramis, that is you! I didn’t think I’d ever see you again!”

Porthos growls under his breath as the woman launches herself at Aramis for a hug.  He really wants to finish their conversation and instead, yet another beautiful woman is intruding.  Only Athos’ hand on his arm keeps him in place as Aramis greets the intruder. 

“Paulina? I...what?” Aramis stutters, shocked.  “How are you? You look...wonderful.” And she does.  Gone is that skinny child in a threadbare shift, replaced by a glowing young woman in a surprisingly expensive blue gown.  Surely, she’s not still at the brothel then. 

She smiles in acknowledgment of his underlying meaning and turns the discussion to him.  “What about you? What happened to you, Aramis?”

The Musketeer has no idea what his mother might have told everyone about his leaving so he ignores that question.  Instead, he subtly sweeps his blue cape, and says, “I made my way to Paris and joined the Musketeers.”

She’s clearly impressed and she embraces the taller man again.  But as she fingers the blue material, the other men can see her thoughts are elsewhere.  Athos is becoming suspicious, in addition to frustrated at the intrusion on their mission.  Porthos, on the other hand, is finally seeing the possibilities of speaking to someone from Aramis’ past.  His real past. 

D’Artagnan, apparently, has the same thought as he gallantly offers to take her shopping basket.  “May we escort you home?” the young man offers. Aramis snickers before he can stifle it, amused at the younger man’s chivalrous behavior despite knowing the lady’s low status.  It’s sweet. 

Aramis walks at Paulina’s other side while d’Artagnan begins his not so subtle interrogation.  “You grew up with Aramis, then?” he starts to Paulina’s sparkling laughter. “I’m sure he was a handful as a child.”

“Oh, no,” Paulina refutes.  “He was such a sweetheart,” as she speaks she hooks her hand around Aramis’ elbow, “as I’m certain he is now.  He was so quiet!” she exclaims to the three men’s surprise. “But I suppose that was your poor dear mother’s influence.”

Unbeknownst to Paulina, her male audience is hanging on her every word, even Aramis as he wonders what secrets she might have known.  “How was his mother?” d’Artagnan prompts. 

“She was a saint,” Aramis breaks in, both because he has to defend his mother and also to delay the inevitable.  

Paulina pats his arm with his other hand and coos at him.  “Of course, she was,” she reassures. “She was just very protective of him, kept little Aramis all to herself, she did.”

d’Artagnan chuckles a bit at her choice of words to describe his compatriot, as was her intention.  He’s now imagining his battle-hardened compatriot as a child with dark ringlets hiding behind his mother’s skirts.  Porthos and Athos, however, are more interested in what the mother was keeping her child from. 

But there will be no further answers it seems as they approach a very pretentious house in the center of town.  The owner is probably a royal tax collector, perhaps has even been elevated into the nobility. d’Artagnan gives the basket to a waiting footman and bids the charming young woman adieu, but she keeps hold of Aramis as she walks a bit inside the stone gates, away from where the other men can hear.  

“Aramis?” she queries softly, as if already expecting refusal.  “I really hate to ask, I mean, it’s been years, but I…”

Aramis turns to face his old friend fully and gently grips her tiny hands in his own.  “Paulina, whatever it is, I will do whatever I can to help you.”

She blushes prettily and tips her face down while she reaches in her small bag to pull out a note.  “Someone left me this note. I found it slipped under my door so it has to be someone in this house…”

She’s rushing over her words, clearly agitated so Aramis interrupts her.  “What does the letter say?”

“It accuses me of killing her!” she whispers.  “His wife!”

Aramis understands suddenly.  This fancy house and Paulina’s expensive clothes, now it makes sense.  Paulina must have the monsieur’s favorite girl, a mistress, but when his wife died then he was free to move her into his palatial home.  But surely, she had nothing to do with that tragedy. He knows her, well, he knew her as a child, and besides, there are always naysayers when the low born rise too high.  It’s just jealousy, he’s certain. 

They’re suddenly interrupted by a man’s voice calling out to Paulina.  She reacts with such a vivid smile that Aramis knows the newcomer must be her benefactor.  The man’s response is warm enough to calm Aramis’ concern for her.

“Paulina, are you all right?” he asks first which further reassures Aramis, but his expression hardens as he turns to Aramis and the other Musketeers who have arrived at his back.  “What business do the Musketeers have in my home?”

“None at all,” Aramis answers, sweeping his hat off his head.  “I was simply greeting a childhood friend. But we shall be off.”

“Oh, stop by tomorrow,” Paulina invites to the obvious consternation of her lover.  “I know that you must be busy, but I’d love to catch up some more.”

“As you wish,” Aramis answers, to Athos’ consternation as the sharpshooter rejoins them.  

Finally, they take their leave and Athos is only too quick to lead them toward the inn where they can rest their aching bodies.  Aramis and d’Artagnan go on up to wash in their respective rooms while Athos and Porthos brood and take care of the arrangements and their horses.  Then they switch, Aramis and d’Artagnan ordering food in the tavern while they wait. 

Aramis tries to keep up to his usual standards of charming company, and it has the added benefit of keeping him awake long enough to eat.  “I will have to apologize that I do not remember my way around town more. Last time I was here, I was looking at the city from a shorter perspective,” he says.  

d’Artagnan swallows a gulp of wine and teases the other man.  “What do you mean? You’re still short,” he says, lording his slight height advantage over the older musketeer.  Then he sobers. “So you don’t know this man that we seek?”

Aramis sighs and puts down his cup. “I truly don’t believe that I have ever met him.”  He can see the question on d’Artagnan’s face, a question about who exactly he did meet growing up in the brothel.  A little smirk lifts one corner of Aramis’ mouth because d’Artagnan would, in fact, be surprised by the lutins and korrigans and other Fée that he met instead of the patrons.  

But they’re interrupted by the arrival of the other two who immediately dive into their cups and bowls of stew.  d’Artagnan is ever the eager pup, though. 

“So we just wait here then?” he asks.  

“That is the most sensible,” Athos states as he stares into his cup a moment.  “If we backtrack to find him, he may have used a shortcut since he knows the area.  We shall have to trust that he makes the journey safely.”

“And we all need a night in a bed,” Porthos speaks up as he puts down his spoon in his now empty bowl.  He very specifically does not look at Aramis, but it’s there in the air anyway. 

Aramis has only eaten half his soup, but he pipes up, “You’re right, my friend.  And I shall take that as my cue to retire.” He stands up, the feel of bruises on his knees aching after the short rest.  

Porthos scrambles after him.  Annoyed at the man’s sudden disappearance, he stomps up the stairs to their shared room.  Opening the door, his rant is derailed upon seeing Aramis already stripped to his smalls. He knows it’s been one hell of a long day, and imagines that Aramis is eager to go to sleep.  But, in the back of his mind, he also believes that Aramis is trying to avoid talking about anything. 

Porthos lets out a deep and gusty sigh he closes the door but a gentle touch to his cheek causes him to turn back around.  Aramis is now standing before him naked, hand trailing down from his cheek to his chest. Silently, the slender man pushes the coat from Porthos’ shoulders and then attacks the ties of his britches.  Quick as can be, Porthos is as naked as his lover and letting himself be pushed to sit on the bed. Aramis climbs on his lap, wrapping long arms around his neck and pressing them so tightly together that Porthos has to let his head falls back so their lips can finally meet.  Their tongues tangle as he slides his hands up the knobs of Aramis’ spine. Like a cat, his lover arches back into the touch, pushing those darker brown nipples into Porthos’ face. It’s a temptation that he greedily succumbs to, licking over a pebbled bud before gently biting, causing the lean body to shudder in his arms.  As if with great effort, Aramis leans forward, almost curling himself over Porthos’ bowed head. He cups his hands around Porthos’ neck, writhing in the onslaught of sensation. 

“Now, now,” Aramis whispers in Porthos’ ear, still so hurried as if any moment Porthos will leave him.  Awkwardly, he fumbles for something on the bed, finally bringing up their little vial of oil. Kneeling up, his preparations are cursory, a quick coating of oil on Porthos’ cock, before sitting on it in a long slow slide.  Porthos can see the muscles jump in the other man’s jaw, evidence of the effort of keeping any noise unvoiced.

Arms wrapped around each other, Aramis begins to move, his thighs working.  Their chests are pressed close, faces cheek to cheek, but soon the position becomes too awkward.  They separate only long enough for Porthos to drag himself more fully onto the bed, Aramis crawling over him like a hungry predator.  Then with a slick hand, his cock is nudging at that softened entrance. With Porthos prone, Aramis can move more freely and he leans back, balancing himself on his hands as he rolls his hips in deliberate slow motions.  

Porthos can’t reach, but his eyes stroke along those flexing muscles as Aramis takes him deeply into his body.  He chokes on his breath as the other man shifts, leaning forward, hands planted on his chest. Aramis’ weight is fully on top of him and now his hands can reach up to frame that handsome face.  Staring into each other eyes, the love there is clear to be seen. But love is a word that they don’t say to each other, because it’s too frightening. Because it would entail promises that they can’t make, that Aramis can’t make.  But it’s still there, even without the words. 

Porthos tucks Aramis’ face in his shoulder, holding their bodies together even as he continues thrusting up into that tight hole.  He braces his feet on the bed to thrust harder, feeling Aramis’ harsh breath in his ear, but the angle just isn’t right. Keeping Aramis’ body tucked tight, Porthos uses the leverage of his feet to roll them over so he’s on top.  Their faces are still close, Porthos’ hands still on the other man’s face as he finally can thrust with more of his strength. He watches as Aramis struggles against being restrained even as long legs wrap around his waist. 

Breaking eye contact, they kiss sloppily, Porthos’ thumbs massaging Aramis’ jaw.  Ducking his head to concentrate on thrusting, Aramis’ lips press against his forehead and then his cheek and temple.  Porthos strains upwards, lifting his face again as he tries to thrust even deeper. One hand lands on Aramis’ forehead, keeping the man’s head to the pillow and his neck extended.  Aramis’ mouth is open, breathing harsh as he comes, his hand moving between them. 

Finally, Porthos lets himself go, resting his forehead against Aramis’ cheekbone as his thrusts become short and arrhythmic.  When he finally comes, his ecstasy turns immediately to exhaustion. His arms give out even as the last shudders run through him and he decides Aramis makes a comfortable pillow.  Normally he wouldn’t crush his smaller lover, but just now perhaps they need the reassurance of being wrapped up together. 

Aramis hides his face in sweaty skin as they finally roll to their sides.  In the aftermath, he knows that Porthos must be burning with questions, but the beloved man lets him hide.  Aramis can feel himself clinging to the other man’s strength, practically clawing Porthos’ back, but Porthos still holds him gently, cradling him.  

Meanwhile, downstairs in the tavern, Athos is drinking his wine with less fervor than usual, almost absentmindedly.  He is debating airing his concerns before they actually find their quarry. 

“You think what happened last night has something to do with all this?  What does Richelieu even want to do with the Angel?” d’Artagnan asks. 

“Enrich himself on earth and buy his way into heaven,” Athos replies.  These are always the Cardinal’s desires. But then he falls silent. He feels out of his depth in trying to understand the forces at work here and his suspicions could gravely impact them all.  But he feels compelled to have another’s opinion. “I am not at all certain that the man that we are waiting for is the angel we seek.”

That brings the boy’s head up.  “What do you mean?”

“I think that there are two ways of looking at what has happened,” Athos lays out his case.  “These events occur as Monsieur Meschin is leaving, but they also occur as we are arriving.”

“You think it’s one of us?” d’Artagnan asks, surprised.  “But how could it be? You’ve known each other for years.  Unless you think it’s me?”

“No,” Athos quiets the boy.  “Aramis was the first to see the statue cry, and he was the closest to the rose bushes.”

“But...but why would these events only start now?  Wouldn’t you have seen signs before this?” d’Artagnan asks.  

That is the crux of what weighs on Athos mind.  “You remember a month ago when Aramis rushed into a burning building?” he asks, knowing the answer.  “Aramis rescued that child without suffering a single burn himself.”

d’Artagnan lets out a surprised laugh.  It’s just one of Aramis’ many antics. “Certainly.  Aramis is always rushing into things without thinking.  And it’s not as if he’s never injured.”

“He is surprisingly lucky for someone so thoughtless,” Athos says.  “Trust that he has been that way as long as I have known the man. And even from before the Musketeers, he has the scar of a musket ball on his chest.  It’s unusual for a man to survive a shot to the chest.”

“Yes, but…” d’Artagnan starts to speak but Athos simply talks over his objections.  

“He was born in this town, just as the prophecy said, to a mother with no father.  He often talks to things that others can’t see, and finds information with no explanation.  He puts salt across the doorways and thinks that we don’t notice, keeps pebbles with holes in them in his pockets.  Aramis once found a healing well when asked to get a cup of water for a little girl.”

d’Artagnan is looking dumbfounded for the second time that day.  “Why wouldn’t he tell us?”

“I don’t know,” Athos speculates while peering into his cup.  “Perhaps he doesn’t want to be controlled by Richelieu. Perhaps he cannot, because it is part of some greater plan,” he says the last with some disdain, but there is one more option that weighs on his mind the most.  “Perhaps he does not know.”

“How could he not know?” d’Artagnan asks, and then huffs and looks down at the scuffed tabletop.  He’s still not sure that Athos is correct, but if he is… “Then who are we chasing?”

“That is the second pressing question,” Athos says cryptically before leaning back as he drains his cup and gestures for the serving girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed Paulina's character quite a bit. I figured that because she never left the town where she worked in a brothel that she would need to be more outspoken. She didn't get to start over and try to forget.


	5. Chapter 5

Aramis wakes in the night to find that Porthos has rolled onto his back at some point while he himself has followed, curling into the other man’s chest.  But it’s not just his dreams that woke him this time as he can feel that slimy feeling down his back again, that feeling that the evil eye is looking upon him.  There’s an itch on his shoulder blades as he sits up. The room has been salted, but he wishes that he had a cactus, a Spanish tradition that he learned from his mother.  He’s just putting his feet on the rush strewn floor to get up and check when he hears an oily voice to match the feeling he has. 

It’s the demon whose sigil was painted in blood.  “Don’t worry, pathetic mortal,” it says from a viper’s tongue.  Astride a bear, it slinks across the floor, a man with a lion’s head.  “I cannot enter this space that you have protected. I am only a vision.”

Aramis doesn’t relax, but he glances over to his still sleeping partner, lying there so vulnerable and still.  If this isn’t a dream, how can he hope to protect the other man from so monstrous a beast? 

“I have looked for you all of your short mortal life, fallen one” the demon Purson continues as it dismounts.  “Yes, you are the fallen one, fallen to Earth while I am king below it.”

“What do you want?” Aramis asks, tired of these ridiculous riddles, and also secretly hoping the thing can be goaded into giving away useful information.    

“Your blood,” the lion mouth says honestly, leaning in very close to Aramis.  “It is the missing piece that will allow my brethren to break free from our shackles, these ridiculous rules and boundaries that have us summoned by you pesky mortals.  We will no longer need to possess you but will walk openly as our true selves.”

Aramis swallows, nervous at those huge teeth being so close.  “Wh-why would someone help you?” he asks, thinking of the very human signs of the summoning ritual detritus they found.  

“Power,” the demon remarks, grinning to show even more teeth as it moves back a bit, the bear shifting restlessly behind him.  “What else do you mortals want,” it finishes with a distinct note of disgust in its oily voice. 

Feeling like prey, Aramis doesn’t answer, barely able to look at the monstrous creature.  He stays quiet, only watching out of the corner of his eyes as the thing seems to chuckle to himself and then climbs back astride the bear.  Logically, Aramis thinks that the room isn’t big enough for such a monstrous thing, but of course, this isn’t in the real world. 

The door slams behind the creature and Aramis comes awake with a start, jackknifing up in bed with a loud gasp.  There’s no one in the doorway and no sign of any intruder in the room. A touch to his shoulder produces another gasp as Aramis recoils.  But it’s only Porthos who is sitting up slowly and looking at him with concern. Averting his gaze, Aramis’ immediate inclination is to hide so he climbs out of bed.  Was that a dream or a vision? Is this really his fault? Was Porthos in danger just by being in the room with him? He needs a moment to think, but guilt makes his back teeth hurt as he clenches his jaw.

There is only the barest hint of a pale dawn light filtering through the window slats, but he  is resolved to get on with the day and strides over to the washbasin. Porthos watches the naked form of his lover move around the small room as he rubs a hand over his face, tired from his unexpected awakening.  But his eyes are drawn back to admire the lean form, the pale skin only marred by the silver white of the many scars that Porthos views as the marks of a true gentleman. It’s strange to look upon that beautiful form now that he knows about the brothel.  

It’s not that Porthos pities the other man, but he had a view of Aramis in his mind that has now been shattered.  He always pictured Aramis being formed by an idyllic country life spent chasing fair maidens across fields of blooming wildflowers.  Now it’s as if he has to reevaluate everything he knows, all of Aramis’ quirks, his vanity, his defensiveness, his...oh God, his relationships with men.  Porthos long ago struggled with his attraction to other men, back when he was in the Court of Miracles, young and defensive and trying to pretend that he only wanted women in his bed.  But did Aramis ever have that inner struggle or was his innocence simply taken before he understood what he had lost? He’s realizing that they haven’t talked about so much of what’s important.  And now he doesn’t know how to start the conversation. 

Aramis washes the sweat from his body knowing that Porthos is staring at him, knowing that Porthos’ thoughts are in turmoil with wondering if everything has been a lie.  But while Aramis truly doesn’t believe that knowledge of his birthplace changes anything, he can’t reassure the other man without making worse his other lies of omission.  Because knowing about his childhood in a brothel doesn’t mean that Porthos knows him, at all. 

Frustrated by his thoughts and exhausted from his dreams, Aramis swipes an impatient hand through his hair, frowning at his disheveled appearance in the mirror.  He never likes to look out of sorts even when he feels it. Especially now, here in LaBourd. He can hear his mother’s voice telling him how important his looks were, how necessary to look normal.  Beauty is often mistaken for virtue, she would say. Her last words to him, in fact, were concerning how important it was for Msr d’Herblay to find him beautiful. Spinning away from the washstand, he thrusts his feet in his boots, ready to escape this room and this conversation.  

“See you at breakfast,” Aramis throws out as he closes the door behind him.  

However, it seems there is no end to his troubles.  As soon as he heads down the stairs, he can see Athos already at a table.  That’s another conversation that he doesn’t want to have, especially as he remembers his dream.  Surely, it’s nothing, just his mind finding a way to place blame on himself. Besides, he certainly can’t tell Athos about a dream, about a demon.  Though, in this case, demons and visions aren’t necessarily restricted to him and his strange abilities. Could he tell Athos and not implicate himself?

He stumbles on the last step as he remembers that he has another problem, Paulina and her blackmailer.  

“Careful there,” d’Artagnan elbows him casually as he heads over to where Athos sits.  

Aramis follows at a slower pace like he’s going to his execution.  Still he summons a smile as he sits down and gestures at the wench for food. 

“Any angelic signs this morning,” Athos asks, casually, too casually.  It melts the smile off of Aramis’s face. 

Recovering quickly, Aramis smiles back obnoxiously smug.  “Not this morning. But I do hope to see an angel this morning, the angelic Paulina, of course,” he finishes with a wink over at d’Artagnan who blushes amusingly enough.  

Athos is frowning in disapproval and Aramis just got his breakfast.  He starts shoveling the gruel in his mouth, preemptively. 

“You remember why we are here, don’t you, Aramis?” Athos chides him.  “I know you have a propensity for running off to save every fair maiden, but we have more important work to do.”

“Of course, of course,” Aramis sits back smugly as Porthos arrives to take the seat beside him.  “I’m sure it won’t take long to simply check in on Paulina, though. It is on the way.”

“You can’t just run off on your own,” Athos whispers fiercely.  “This mission is important and your expertise are needed.”

“And I am committed,” Aramis tries to soothe.  “I will be there. I just want to check on her first.”

With that, he stands up and sweeps his hat on his head.  So far today, he’s done nothing but run from one issue after another, with no safe haven in sight.  He can only hope that Paulina will be happy to see him. 

And she is.  She meets him leading his horse to the stable.  “Oh, Aramis! I’m so glad that you came,” she exclaims.  

“How could I miss seeing such a beautiful lady on a perfect day like today,” he says charmingly.  

She giggles and spins around in her expensive gown.  “Oh, look at us both now. And look, look at this brooch,” she orders him to look at the expensively set gem at her decolletage that glints in the morning sunlight.  

“It’s gorgeous, as are you,” Aramis assures her, feeling more and more of her anxiety behind her veneer of exuberance.  “Let me just take my horse to the barn.”

There is a groomer in the estate’s barn that he greets as he is securing his horse in a stall.  The man is young and slight with dark short hair and intense eyes. The man’s stare prompts Aramis to shiver and his back itches.  

The man does not return his greeting, but says, “You’re that friend of Paulina’s?”  

“Yes, she and I grew up together,” Aramis responds agreeably.  Let the other man think what he will of their past. 

The man looks down and away with a disdainful sniff.  “She doesn’t belong here. All of the town is already talking.  It will eventually destroy him.”

Aramis frowns.  “Monsieur is well aware of Paulina’s past.  She is not hiding anything from him.”

“No?” the groomer asks.  “She’s not hiding a small poison ring?  The same ring that she gave to the serving girl here, the one who died of that same poison?  She’s hiding that she is a murderer.”

Aramis is rather stunned into silence.  “How do you know?”

“I know what you’re hiding too,” the man finally turns back to look at Aramis and his eyes are now glowing red.  “Yes, we know all about you, Aramis. You’ve been quite the talk down there.”

Aramis recognizes a foot soldier demon taking over the man’s soul.  Apparently, his talents don’t extend to recognizing the possessed. He takes a step back, but is surprised when the door opens behind him and Athos walks in.  

“Not now,” Aramis hisses.  

“Your mother is down there with us, Aramis,” the demon taunts him.  Aramis is stricken, but he knows also that demons lie. “Yes,” the demon continues, “Yes, did you know that she thought your were a changeling baby?  She left you outside to cry for hours, but your Fée mother never showed up. How sad! No wonder she got rid of you!”

Aramis has slowly walked forward during that speech, taking his rosary out of his pocket and wrapping it around his wrist.  “In the name of the Almighty, I command you to leave,” Aramis says calmly but firmly. 

To his surprise, the man suddenly collapses, the demon vacating his host.  Aramis follows him down, kneeling beside the prone form. Placing his hand lightly over the man’s nose and mouth, Aramis feels for breath, but eventually announces, “He’s dead.”

Athos leans over his comrade’s form and squeezes a tense shoulder.  This sign is incontrovertible. Only an angel could banish a demon to hell with a single touch.  

“Aramis, we need to find Msr Meschin.  Now,” Athos orders. They’ll deal with the rest of it later, but these deaths must be stopped.  But he can tell that Aramis isn’t paying him a bit of attention. It’s one of the sharpshooter’s more annoying qualities when his eyes seek out darkened corners, watching something that no one else can see.  

Suddenly, Aramis is standing and untying his horse.  Athos follows, taking his horse back from d’Artagnan who was waiting with Porthos at the gate.  He’s still pulling himself onto the saddle while Aramis begins to ride away unheeding of Porthos’ shouted questions.  

Aramis is following the black dog that he saw skulking in shadows at the barn.  It’s the familiar of a demon, and given his strange vision last night, Aramis assumes it’s a familiar of the demon king Purson.  While a demon can only have physical presence in the body of a person that they possess, a familiar is often used to carry out their will.  

They follow the black dog back to Monsieur Henri’s abode.  It’s still early morning and the house looks dark and deserted as before, but something in Athos tells him that the house is not empty.  There is a presence about it now. The dog waits for them at the entrance. 

Aramis only seems to notice the other man as he approaches the threshold and looks back over his shoulder.  “You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers. 

Athos hurries the last few steps to catch up.  “You couldn’t keep me away,” he replies. 

But still Aramis hesitates and Athos knows that he’s debating how much to say.  “I believe that there’s a demon inside, not the angel.”

Athos just nods.  “I figured as much,” he says and he doesn’t need to voice more reproach than that. 

He has barely finished speaking when two horses ride up, and Porthos is calling out to them, “I hope that you didn’t mean to leave us behind?”  

Aramis doesn’t answer, only looks back toward the door and disappears inside.  It’s so unlike the other man that Porthos jumps off his horse without even tying it up.  He has no idea what is going on, but he rushes headlong into the house, into probable danger as he has always rushed after Aramis.  He gets through the door in time to see Aramis walking through another after a dog that appears to be waiting for him. Porthos follows behind Athos into what would be a sitting room in any other house, but in this house, it is simply an empty space.  It is empty but for the familiar markings on the floor, a familiar man, and two dogs. But as they watch, more dogs enter from the other door. It’s starting to feel like a trap and Porthos carefully pulls his main gauche. 

“Aramis, is it?” the man says, addressing the musketeer at the front of the triangle they’ve fallen into.  “I’ve been looking for you for a long long time.”

“Monsieur Meschin,” Aramis greets, staying still as the man takes a few steps forward, casually as if they weren’t in some strange standoff.  But Aramis’ attention is instead focused on an empty corner of the room. 

“See but I knew your Angel name, and you’ve shed your Angel nature, haven’t you?  I summoned demon after demon and none of them could find an Angel on Earth.” Msr Meschin shakes his head as if disappointed.

The demon king, Purson waits in the corner, astride his bear who shifts in anticipation.  Aramis thinks him to be the greatest threat in the room so when he speaks, it’s to that corner.  “I am not the Angel.”

Porthos opens his mouth to interject, to back Aramis up.  Of course, Aramis isn’t an Angel, that’s ridiculous. But he is an outsider to this, barely knowing enough doctrine to follow this intense conversation.  In confusion, he looks to the other Musketeers, but even Athos seems content to follow the lead of their capricious brother. 

The lion-headed demon opens his smiling mouth and lets his viper’s tongue scent the air.  The sorcerer only laughs. “I guess that’s for me to find out,” he answers with a shrug. “But be prepared for a real show at the Notre Dame cathedral soon.  I always thought Paris would look wonderful burning.”

One moment, it’s silent as the grave and the next, cacophony.  One dog launches itself at Aramis, but before Porthos can move, all of the dogs seem to attack them at once.  Porthos can only focus on the growling, snapping jaws seemingly on all sides. Next to him, he sees d’Artagnan fall, and Porthos is desperate to get the younger man off of the ground as quickly as possible.  In the melee, he loses sight of Aramis entirely. 

Aramis is backed against the wall, standing very still as the jaws of the beast are very near his throat.  He’s paralyzed as the sorcerer and the invisible demon approach him. “Now you stay still or there are dozens more beasts outside that I will sic on your friends,” the demon says.  

The sorcerer reaches out with his corporeal hand and grips Aramis’ wrist.  Instinctively, he resists the tug, but then he looks over at his friends. Porthos is trying to fend off a dog while bending over to help d’Artagnan, massive jaws snapping right near the bejeweled ear.  Unresistant, he lets his wrist be pulled away from his body and sliced with a thin dagger. 

Aramis stands uselessly, watching his blood flow into a flask.  His arm gives a twitch, but he can’t bring himself to look back at his friends, not when he is unable to help them.  He’s averting his face when but the sorcerer picks up the crucifix from his chest and chuckles. With Exaggerated motions, he then pretends to wipe his hands on Aramis’ shirt and gestures for the dog to move away.  As his arm is released, Aramis sways, suddenly weak with blood loss and exhaustion. 

He only looks up when the man is shoving a cloth at him.  “You should wrap that,” Msr Meschin says, impersonally. “Just in case, we need more later.”

With a smug laugh, both man and demon leave, the dogs trailing after them as Aramis is already sinking to the ground.  Clumsily, he tries to wrap the cloth around his arm, but then his brothers are there, helping him. Porthos’ huge hand is on his face and d’Artagnan is supporting his shoulders and Athos has taken over wrapping his wrist. 


	6. Chapter 6

It feels only a moment later when Aramis is seated back at a table in the tavern.  d’Artagnan has disappeared, but Athos is across the table from him and Porthos is pushing a bowl and a cup in front of him.  Aramis feels in a daze, but he knows that he needs to eat and drink. He’s well aware of the effects of losing blood. 

“It’s not me,” he croaks.  “It can’t be. I’m not…” he shakes his head and grabs for the cup.  Then he tries a self-defacing smile. “You know me. How angelic do I seem?  I’m just a sinful man. I’m not...”

“Of course, not,” Porthos finally gets to say, squeezes his lover’s forearm to stop the flow of words.  “Only someone who doesn’t know you could think so,” he says, trying to be humorous. 

He looks over at Athos for help, but finds none.  Athos looks back at him like Porthos is the ridiculous one.  Suddenly, he realizes his huge hand is squeezing Aramis’s arm too tight and lets go abruptly.  Anxious, he surreptitiously looks around, always conscious of their interactions in public. He feels very conspicuous suddenly like everyone should be looking at them.  Shrinking back into his chair, he blankly watches Aramis grudgingly eat his food. There’s so much to say, but none of them are speaking. How could Aramis be an Angel? An Angel who shoots people and curses and has sex, with men even.  It’s as ridiculous as Porthos himself being the Angel. But as he remembers that he only just found out about his lover’s childhood, what else is the man hiding from him?

But in this moment, they have a job to do.  They have to get back to Paris, just in case...in case that Aramis is the Angel and that his blood is about to set something terrible in motion.  Just in time, d’Artagnan comes back from readying the horses. Idly, he wonders when they’ll stop considering him as a boy and giving him the work.  Porthos stands from the table, controlling himself as he watches Aramis struggle to follow. If the sharpshooter looked bad before, now he looks terrible, but there is no time to waste.    

d’Artagnan looks at each of them in turn, desperate for reassurance, but none of the three of them can give him that.  They’ve been through a lot together, they’re the inseparables, who know each other so well that they don’t need words to communicate.  But they didn’t ask, not wanting to know about some of the man’s stranger behavior, not wanting to alienate him, but also not wanting to delve deeper, to have a potentially awkward conversation, to be vulnerable with each other.  They’re the Inseparables, and yet they keep their individual pain very secret.

The ride is hard.  Athos is pushing them, but Aramis’s condition declines as steadily as the sun moves across the sky.  Porthos stays behind and watches as his lover’s upright posture slowly sinks into a slouch. He doesn’t say anything though, until Aramis is suddenly slowing his horse, veering off as he leans half off his saddle to vomit up all of the porridge.

“Stop!” Porthos yells ahead.  “Aramis needs a break.” As soon as he’s said it, he can see the refusal on Athos’ face, but it’s Aramis who speaks.  

“No, keep going.  We must...go,” he manages while gagging.  He appears positively haunted by the idea of demons running loose in Paris, an idea that the rest of them find very hard to imagine.  

“Have you seen a demon?” d’Artagnan asks, half as a distraction that will give them all a break.  

Aramis rinses his mouth and slowly sits back up in his saddle as he considers how much to say.  “The demon was there, in Msr Meschin’s house.”

“But I didn’t see anything.  It wasn’t Msr Meschin?” d’Artagnan asks.  

“No,” Aramis says firmly as he turns his horse around.  “You would know if you saw it. He has the head of a lion.”

With that ominous sentence, Aramis urges his horse forward.  The rest follow in various stages of reluctance. For the rest of the ride, Aramis refuses Porthos’ entreaties to drink water, and by the time that Athos finally calls a halt for the night, they’ve slowed to a walk as Aramis is basically laying on his horse’s neck.  It’s already cold and dark, but he still argues Athos’ decision. 

“No,” Aramis starts as he pushes himself up.  “We have to keep going, we have to…”

He stops arguing when Porthos starts physically pulling the other man down off his horse.  As soon as he’s on the ground though, Aramis is pushing Porthos’ hands away petulantly. Porthos is not having that today.  Sometimes, it feels like they only touch other gently when tucked in bed together, but now, after all of these revelations, Porthos doesn’t want it all to become a wedge between them.  

So Porthos wraps an arm around the sickly man’s shoulders and pulls him down to the ground.  He seats himself behind, enfolding Aramis in his arms and pulling his horse blanket over them both.  Aramis is so exhausted that he doesn’t fight, doesn’t insist on taking care of his own horse and simply leans back into Porthos’ broad chest.  They never are so affectionate in public and Porthos looks up at his colleagues with a scowl already in place, daring them to mention it. 

In reality, Athos is not disgusted to look upon the evidence of their love, but he has always been glad of their dedication to discretion.  Athos knows a thing or two about secrets, knows how the need to keep the secret builds in the mind until the world is built on it. But the secret of two men lying together pales in comparison to their current predicament.  Aramis is an angel and Richelieu won’t stop searching for him and there’s a demon-summoning sorcerer. This is a secret that could actually tear them apart. And Athos has no idea how they can hide such a thing. 

d’Artagnan on the other hand, keeps sneaking glances at the two men simply because he has never seen two men together.  He wants his brothers to be happy, but it’s such a foreign concept in his mind that he can’t help looking back at them, at their ease, at the obvious love between them.  He watches as Porthos bullies the other man into drinking, Aramis’ curly head cradled in Porthos’ bicep like a child. While d’Artagnan knew that they lie with each other, he didn’t really  _ know _ until now. 

Porthos holds Aramis around the chest as he vomits all the liquid back up.  He’s concentrating on his task, wiping Aramis’ mouth, brushing back his sweaty bangs.  There’s no thought for any of the rest of it. He just wants Aramis to be well. He’s so focused on his denial that he almost misses the sound of something moving through the undergrowth until d’Artagnan begins looking around like a hound on a scent.  The sound is of something large, large enough to crush anything in its path. He starts to sit up, disturbing the man lying against him. Ignoring Aramis’ protests, he lays the man aside and stands up, making eye contact with Athos. 

It looks like a huge snake as it gets close enough to see, with fanned out scales around its face making it seem even larger.  And row upon row of huge sword-sized teeth as it opens its mouth aggressively. Porthos moves forward, his sword in his hand, just behind Athos.  d’Artagnan fumbles instead for his rifle. But before the boy can shoot, Aramis is stumbling between them, pushing aside the musket. 

“No, don’t…” Aramis says, and the most surprising part is that the man is stripping.  He’s already lost his coat, breeches, and shirt. The other three can only stare as he pushes down his smalls, walking toward the giant lizard with only his gleaming gold necklaces and not even shoes on his feet.  

Instinctively, Porthos follows, his sword still raised, but suddenly, the monster seems hesitant.  It closes its mouth, shakes its head from side to side and then looks down. Then slowly, it turns around and begins to swish away.  

Torn between awe and anger, Porthos grabs the long shirt off the ground and shoves it over the other man’s head.  Unfortunately, now that the danger is over, Aramis seems to collapse, sagging back into Porthos who fumbles to move his sword away from the mostly naked man in his arms.  

“Aramis,” Porthos scolds, though he’s not quite sure why.  “You mad bastard, you’re freezing,” he says, struggling to pick up the rest of the strewn clothes without dumping the other man on the ground.  

d’Artagnan looks away with an unwilling blush as Porthos hitches the other man on his thigh for balance, the long shirt still bunched around his hips.  But the younger man can’t help asking, “What was that?”

“A guivre,” Aramis replies in a deep tired voice that nevertheless sounds amused.  

“And that giant monster ran away because you’re an Angel?” d’Artagnan asks.  

“No!” Aramis refutes adamantly, even as he’s practically draped over Porthos.  “They are afraid of the naked body,” he says, his breath visible in the cold air.  “It was nothing to do with me, specifically.” 

“But then how do you know all this?” d’Artagnan blurts out, making the mistake of looking over as Porthos is kneeling to get Aramis’ long thin legs back into his smalls.  

d’Artagnan didn’t really think of the implications of the question as he asked, but now it’s out there and they’re all anxiously waiting for the answer.  It seems the only way to refute being an Angel is to reveal his true nature. “I know them like I know you,” he says, cryptically. “I’ve always seen them and talked to them.  They have sometimes been the only ones that I could talk to, or ask for help.”

Porthos leaves off their leather coats and helps Aramis back near the fire.  This time Aramis lays on the ground, curled up on his side with his head on Porthos’ thigh.  This allows Porthos to take the food that the Gascon boy hands out. 

“That’s who you talk to then?” Athos asks as he accepts his own bowl.  “When you’re alone.”

“Yes, so you see that I can’t be the Angel.  What Angel would call the Fée friends? Would need to be saved by them?” Aramis says, forlornly.  “My mother thought that I was a witch. That’s why she was so desperate to get me away from LaBourd before I could be accused.  She knew that I was of the devil but she loved me too much to see me burn.”

Athos nods and looks to the ground, his suspicions once again confirmed.  It was de Lancre’s witch trials that drove Aramis’ mother to keep him separate and get him out of the city.  She must have been as afraid of her son as she was afraid for him. d’Artagnan only looks uncomfortable and shocked, concerned for his friend but knowing that his pity is not wanted.  He opens his mouth to ask more questions, but Porthos is giving him a glare. Aramis is falling asleep and Porthos sets his bowl aside so he can fuss with the blanket and Aramis’ wild hair.  He looks down at the man that he loves and feels like he doesn’t know him at all. Aramis’ past, his motivations, his friends, they are all a mystery. But as Aramis’ hand absently clenches in his breeches, he realizes that it doesn’t stop the feelings that he has.  

Exhausted himself, Porthos finishes his meal and then moves to curl behind Aramis on the ground, hoping that his warmth will help the other man.  Aramis isn’t feverish, his skin is instead cool and sweaty which Porthos knows isn’t a good sign. When he brushes his hand over the clammy forehead, Aramis doesn’t stir at all.  It’s reminiscent of how sick the poor man got after Savoy. After being left in the cold, injured and starving, Aramis developed a fever, unsurprisingly. The injured soldier threw himself around on the bed, raving, his skin like fire.  Porthos did everything that he could think of to bring him back, including buying a relic. He knows Aramis doesn’t believe in the sale of relics, but Porthos was so desperate that he bought a tiny sliver of the cross that Jesus was crucified on.  

At first, it seemed to help.  Aramis quieted and lay still, asleep.  But then his breathing became very slow and his skin became waxy like the dead.  In that moment, Porthos had been certain that Aramis was gone and had clutched his body in sudden outpouring of emotion.  Aramis woke up, miraculously, but Porthos never saw that tiny relic again. 

Athos looks across the fire at the two men curled around each other.  He too is thinking of how sick Aramis became after Savoy. In the present, though, there is no reason for the other man’s illness.  The wound isn’t that deep and isn’t festering. But in this new world where his brother is an Angel trapped in a human body, he doesn’t know what is possible.  And they have a crisis waiting for them in Paris, whether Aramis gets well or not. Getting comfortable, he gestures to d’Artagnan to go to sleep while he stays awake and on watch.  

d’Artagnan, however, has the curiosity of the young and the misguided belief that Athos contains most of the answers.  “How could his mother do that to him?” the young recruit asks. “She sold him. She convinced him that he’s a monster.”

Athos sighs, not particularly wanting to get into other people’s motivations. “I think she was caught in the midst of forces that she couldn’t understand.”  Athos sympathizes with the feeling. 

“But how could an Angel be mistaken for a witch?  I mean, Aramis isn’t very saintly if he is the Angel.  Certainly not celibate,” d’Artagnan smirks a bit as he looks over his shoulder at the older Musketeer.  

Athos lets the corners of his lips tilt upwards.  It does have a bit of irony about it. “Angels are obedient.  They don’t actually experience emotions like compassion. Mercy is a choice that can sometimes backfire.  Love is a virtue that can lead any of us into sin.” He should know. And he certainly knows how it feels to think yourself a monster, though he can’t imagine how Aramis felt being told that his whole life, by the people meant to love him.  

d’Artagnan thinks of Constance, missing her with sudden intensity.  The church is quite clear on adultery, but his heart is equally clear.  “What terrible things would you do if you believed you were already damned?” he whispers mostly to himself.  Athos is, instead, thinking of the terrible things that he’s done in the name of good. 

Their introspective conversation is interrupted as Aramis stirs in his sleep, making startled noises of shock as he kicks his bent legs.  They only have a moment before Aramis is screaming like he’s being skinned. 

Immediately, Porthos rolls over, seemingly crushing the smaller man with his body weight.  It’s not actually uncommon for Aramis to wake them up in such a way, particularly when sleeping outdoors in the winter.  d’Artagnan, though, has never seen this reaction and rushes over to kneel beside the panting man. 

“What is it?” d’Artagnan asks.  “Is it the demon? A vision?”

Porthos looks at the boy over Aramis’ heaving shoulder and scowls.  “It’s just a nightmare. About Savoy,” he finishes, reminding the boy.  The last thing Aramis needs right now is to bring up Marsac and that whole mess.  The sick man’s head is hanging off his neck like he can’t manage to pick it up. 

“Not Savoy,” Aramis grunts out, clenching his eyes shut against the monstrous images behind them.  Porthos gently maneuvers him so that he’s leaning back against that broad chest again. “Nothing that I’ve ever seen with my eyes,” he continues despite his gasping breaths.  “I’ve just always, always had nightmares. It scared my mother to death when I was a child.”

Athos sits forward, surprised at this new turn in the story.  He wonders if these dreams aren’t in some way prophetic, if Aramis sees Paris being destroyed  “What do you dream of?”

“Death.  Destruction,” Aramis starts, shifting anxiously in Porthos’ lap and avoiding everyone’s eyes.  “Demonic faces, I don’t...There’s nothing recognizable. Deserts maybe,” he shakes his head. “Women and children…” he chokes off, unable to recount the horrors.  

Porthos gathers the shivering form close and buries his face in the bone of Aramis’ shoulder.  How could he not even know what the man’s nightmares contain? All this time, all of the nightmares that he’s held Aramis through, and he didn’t know.  How could Aramis lie shivering in his arms and still lie to him? How can he love someone that he doesn’t know? 

d’Artagnan pats Aramis’ shoulder and backs away as the other two men curl together again.  Aramis is too sick for questions and recriminations, they can all see that. In fact, they’re all tired.  Perhaps, Aramis will wake them all up again tonight, but there is nothing for it. They all need to rest, so Athos acquiesces and lies down in his bedroll.    

The next morning, Porthos wakes to movement, wiggling in his arms.  Still exhausted, he nuzzles his face into the other man’s hair before he remembers anything.  His eyes open, finally understanding the other man’s agitation. As he pushes himself up on his arms, Aramis slowly rolls over onto his back, lips moving, but Porthos has to lean over to hear.  “Water, please.”

Hand spread over the back of Aramis’ skull, Porthos dribbles a bit of water in the open mouth. But Aramis immediately pleads for more.  “I need…” but his words cut off as he tries to curl back over. Porthos bites his full bottom lip as he hurries to lift the already heaving form, trying to keep the other man out of the puddle.  It’s only his own strength that keeps Aramis up on his knees. 

The vomiting tapers off quickly and there’s only the sound of the sick man’s harsh breathing.  Until, “please, water,” Aramis starts again. 

Porthos shakes his head, but he knows how important it is to get even a small amount of water to stay down.  The cycle repeats a few times, exhausting the sick man further until he’s hanging limp and is as pale as the finest linen.  It’s quite clear that Aramis is not going to be able to ride by himself. But they have to continue on. Not only because Paris is in danger, but he’s beginning to think that Aramis’ recovery depends on whatever is happening there.  The three of them work together to get Aramis on the horse behind Aramis. Then d’Artagnan stands on a nearby tree stump in order to tie Aramis’ hands around Porthos’ waist, trying to be as careful as possible of the bandage around the man’s thin wrist.  Aramis doesn’t even correct the knot tying, instead simply turning his cheek to rest on Porthos’ shoulderblade. It’s a slower ride as d’Artagnan has to lead Aramis’s horse as well. Athos leads the way and worries. 

The light is already fading as they approach the city.  Riding immediately to the garrison they make a commotion as they arrive, yelling for Treville and the stableboy and the doctor.  Other Musketeers hurry to help them, taking their horses and untying Aramis. And one unfortunate young man regretfully informs Athos that Treville is not there.  Athos can tell that the younger man is afraid to be the bearer of that news, but Athos simply sends the boy to the palace with a message for their captain. He catches up with Porthos carrying Aramis to the infirmary.  

“No doctor,” Aramis mumbles as he’s laid down.  Aramis’ head swims as he lies there, feeling like he might be underwater, dragged by a strong current.  He barely feels Porthos removing his coat and boots, only sees angles of his lover’s face in his delirium.  He’s so thirsty, but his muscles are so tired from vomiting that he fears the idea of drinking a drop. 

“Porthos, I know that you are worried for him, but there is a real crisis here,” Athos argues.  “We need to get to the church…”

“I’ll not leave him,” Porthos growls, though he knows that he’s not doing Aramis one whit of good by pacing around the small bed.  His mind just cannot think about the apocalypse when Aramis appears to be on death’s door. How can he still be so in love with someone that he doesn’t know?  His mind is finally beginning to grasp the fact that Aramis is an Angel. An Angel. HIs mind circles between the thought that Aramis didn’t tell him and the thought that he should have known.  An Angel. 

It all comes down to trust.  Aramis was so afraid of being abandoned that he lived a lie.  And Porthos can’t decide if that makes him angry or just sad. 

Aramis makes a pitiful sound and Porthos forgets that he’s upset, forgets everything but being there for the other man.  He runs a hand gently over the clammy forehead and brushes over the fringe. 

Athos huffs a frustrated sigh.  “d’Artagnan, you and I will…”

He’s interrupted by a loud crash from out in the courtyard and yelling.  Athos curses and he heads downstairs, pushing d’Artagnan down in front of him.  Porthos stays with Aramis, but he looks guiltily at the door. Until there’s the sound of a musket firing seemingly just outside their door.  Without thought, he jumps up, running out in protective mode. 

Aramis doesn’t notice, lying there in his own sweat, delirious and in pain.  Still, he can feel when someone wipes a cloth over his forehead. “Oh dear, poor poor dear,” a feminine face leans over him, wiping his brow, small hands warm but not soft.  He feels those small fingers plucking at his clothes, in his pockets and under his braces. “Now where is it? It must be here somewhere,” she mutters to herself. 

He twitches his fingers as his crucifix is lifted from his chest.  It is special to him and he never takes it off. But a moment later, he feels the weight of it simply brushed away and suddenly it feels like he can breathe.  The nausea in his stomach and the complete weakness of his body is relieved. He still feels fairly awful, dehydration causing pain in his head in addition to weakness from exhaustion, but he feels that he can actually sit up.  His first thought is to reach for the jug of water beside the bed, draining it. That finished, he’s tipping over to lie on the sheets again, the absence of the worst of the pain making him a little giddy. 

He chuckles a little as he looks up at the garrison’s lutine above him.  Her kind face smiles down at him, “Maude, how did you do that?” he asks in relief.

“Oh, it was no trouble.  Twas just a tiny sliver of bone stuck in your shirt, probably a mouse bone sold as the bone of some Saint or of your Teesus,” she twitters, mispronouncing the name of his saviour.  “You see, people give these objects power. You might think that a relic would have the power that prayers might imbue it with, but, in reality, it’s been given nothing but greed and desperation. And you’re just so susceptible to this kind of thing,” she finishes.  

Aramis fairly gawks at her, suddenly making sense of the many times in his life that he was given some bought relic and how sick it made him.  While his brain is whirring and he’s trying to get up the energy to sit up again, she begins speaking again. “Now what are you planning to do about this demon running amuck?  Oh yes, I know all about it, we all do,” she says. 

Like he’s been slapped, Aramis suddenly sits up and immediately feels dizzy and pained.  But the mention of what’s still to come, of the danger that his friends are in spurs him into action.  “Madame, may I ask another favor of you?” he says, one hand to his forehead. 

“Of course, my dear,” she says.  “And don’t worry about your friends, they’ll be busy with the Esprit Follet that I set loose for a bit longer.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Porthos!” Aramis yells, running down the stairs into the garrison’s courtyard.  

Regardless of everything that’s come between them, Porthos responds instantly, catching the man as Aramis stumbles in exhaustion.  With no thought to who might be watching, Porthos wraps his hands around Aramis’ face so he can look at the man. His lover still looks tired and sweaty, but pale and grey, instead pink and alive.  It’s a miracle. 

It takes him a moment to concentrate on the other man’s words.  “Notre Dame, have you heard anything?” Aramis gasps out. 

Porthos’ hands are still running over his friend’s shoulders as Athos answers.  “No, nothing is there.”

“Thank the lord,” Aramis blasphemes.  “We still have time.”

“Time for what?” d’Artagnan pipes up.  

Aramis is acting cagey, looking around before pushing out of Porthos’ arms and towards the small inner communal room where Musketeers can eat their meals.  “C’mon, come in, all of you,” he ushers them all inside and away from any other eyes. “I have a plan.”

While three pairs of eyes stare at him in confusion, Aramis kneels down near the hearth, in the darkest corner of the room.  Anxious, his heart clenches in his chest, adding the pain of heartbreak to his other ills. He’s spent years talking to lutins like Hamo and Maude, and he’s danced with the korrigans around the mounds in Brittany.  The Fée have helped him, given him information, even done some cleaning for him. But he’s never asked this of them, never asked them to expose themselves to other humans. 

“Please,” Aramis whispers, hoping his words aren’t audible to the men behind him.  “Maude, are you here?”

He holds his breath until finally a small form steps forward from the dark.  And behind Maude is Hamo, and even the lutin from the Porthos’ place, Duval. Aramis is suddenly gasping for air, his eyes wet.  He didn’t know until this moment how much this means to him, that Hamo and the others wouldn’t abandon him for asking to prove himself to his brothers.  And speaking of being abandoned, Aramis looks up at the other men, his eyes shining with tears. 

Athos looks the most shocked.  Though, he was the one who suspected Aramis from the start, seeing something that goes against his entire worldview is still shocking to him.  All of his cynicism about religion and all this rural folklore is being upended. d’Artagnan seems rather giddy, but Porthos understands the gravity of what is happening.  He’s focused more on Aramis than the two small creatures because this moment is not just about saving Paris from a demon horde. 

As Porthos takes a step forward, Aramis rises to meet him.  “I wanted to tell you,” Aramis starts. “I love you,” he says earnestly, staring into Porthos’ eyes.  “I love you and I don’t care if the Almighty himself disapproves. I’ll stop seeing other women, I’ll stop  _ flirting _ , I’ll…”

Porthos kisses him, stopping that mouth from making more promises that Aramis can’t possibly keep.  He doesn’t want Aramis to change, he wants to know who Aramis really is. They’re both smiling as he pulls away from Aramis’ tongue to say, “When this is over, I want to know everything, including getting to know whose home I’m living in.”

Aramis is still smiling as he glances over at their audience.  d’Artagnan has blushed, the tips of his ears and apples of his cheeks bright red.  But Athos looks a bit sad, the corners of his mouth turning down into a slight frown.  Aramis’ smile dims a bit, but not because he believes Athos is condemning him. Because he knows that he can’t become used to this.  The outside world is still not going to see what is between them as love. 

Focused back on their current crisis, Aramis turns back to his Fée friends.  “So we will meet you there,” he says, seriously. 

Then he determinedly heads for the door, confident now that his brothers will stick with him.  As they hurry through the crowded streets, Aramis explains his plan, “It’s a public place so he’s probably not going to draw the symbols on the floor there.  He’s probably bringing a poster with all the symbols already drawn. This will make the summoning harder to disrupt.”

“So we’re the distraction,” Athos catches on.  “We take care of the dogs while the small creatures disrupt the ritual.”

“Exactly, they won’t think that the Fée would help humans, or an Angel,” Aramis says.  “But it won’t just be dogs this time. Demons can summon all kinds of animal familiars, and any demon on earth can possess a man, or woman.  Don’t let your guard down because a demon will know everything that you have ever tried to keep hidden and will use it against you. They will mix lies and the truth.  Don’t listen to anything that they say.”

But it’s not until they enter the cathedral and see what is waiting there that they truly understand the danger.  Inside the cathedral is a veritable horde of dogs. If the three of them were basically overwhelmed by a half dozen dogs in LaBourd, now they are looking at several dozen.  Porthos doesn’t think to look up until he sees Aramis tip his head back and there on the columns of the nave are perched dozens of black crows. 

And then he hears Aramis whisper, “The demon is here.  That demon king, Purson, from LaBourd.”

Porthos sees Aramis fingering the bandage around his wrist and suddenly realizes how life is for the other man.  That Aramis sees invisible things, is affected by things that Porthos cannot protect him from. Now Porthos is scared.  And then the man that they’ve been chasing appears, surrounded not only by dogs but by men, men who look quite proficient with the swords that they are holding.  Some of them are even wearing the distinctive uniform of the red guards while others look to be outlaws. 

The dogs begin to bark, first one then another and another and another until it’s a chorus that echoes off the cavernous walls.  And then the birds join in, cawing and flapping their wings and then flying around them like a storm. They’re all so entranced at the spectacle that they barely notice when the attack begins.  They’re ducking from the birds, but trying not to go too low so that the dogs can reach. Their leathers protect them at first from the strong jaws, but Porthos knows that it’s just a matter of time.  Again, they lose track of each other immediately. It’s impossible to keep eyes on what is happening around them when they’re each overwhelmed and surrounded. 

Aramis is ducking and weaving with the rest of his brothers, but eventually he realizes that he’s being herded, pushed forward nearer and nearer the alter until he looks up to see that he’s mere feet away from the illustrious Monsieur Meschin.  He can see the demonic paraphernalia spread out around the man and the two possessed men standing guard beside him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see the familiar shape of Homa and the others, standing at the ready, waiting for their chance.  

“Ah, Aramis, I’m surprised to see you!  You found that relic that I stuck in your shirt then?” the sorcerer taunts him, but Aramis ignores him for the possessed man nearby.

The man is wearing the uniform of the Red Guards, but when he speaks, Aramis can recognize the demon Purson again.  “I’m glad that a servant of the good Lord is here to witness this. I know that you were quite surprised at the knowledge.  And I confess that I was surprised too! How could a man such as you have once been an angel? You spend more time on your back servicing your man than on your knees serving the Lord.”

Meanwhile, Porthos is like a whirling dervish as he slashes at the myriad creatures trying to tear his flesh.  But he’s surprised to spin around and see an actual man in front of him. And when the man begins speaking to him, the creatures around him seem to pause to listen.  “Porthos,” it says in a gravelly voice, and Porthos wonders for a moment how his name is known. But it quickly becomes clear that this is no ordinary man. “The musketeer from the Court of Miracles.  I have to wonder why Treville would enlist you. Was it the novelty? Pity, perhaps? Something to do with your father..?”

Porthos brings his sword down on a nearby wounded dog, cleaving its head clean off and then he looks up menacingly.  But the possessed man seems simply delighted at his outburst. 

“And what about Aramis,” the man continues.  “The Angel. Is he leaving you behind already?  Not that he was ever truly committed to you. How could he?  He never told you the truth. He was never loyal to you...” Porthos cuts off the rest of the sentence with a desperate lunge with his sword.  

Aramis watches as Porthos is thrown across the room with the inhuman strength of the possessed and he can’t help his instinctual scream, “Porthos!”

It feels like a gust of wind hits him from behind, his riotous curls blow into the sweat on his face.  In that moment, he feels a great weight on his back and looks around to see everything is staring at him, human, possessed, and animal.  But what most draws his attention is the familiar weight in his hand. It’s not his normal sword and he looks down to see what appears to be a sword made of lightning, crackling along the length of it.  He knows what this is, the sword of the spirit, the sword Angels use to carry out the will of the Lord. 

Bewildered, he looks up to see Porthos has gotten to his feet and seems relatively unharmed.  But the big musketeer is staring at him like he’s some monster in the night, like he’s something frightening to behold.  It’s every one of Aramis’ fears made manifest, that he is frightening, that he is monstrous, that his loved ones will turn away from him when he needs them most.  

Unable to stand the sight any longer, Aramis turns back to his opponent, effortlessly balancing despite the new weight of the huge white wings on his back.  The sorcerer seems suddenly afraid of him as well, staring at him with wide eyes. However, it doesn’t stop him from finishing the ritual with a flourish and unleashing hell on earth.  Immediately, the first of Purson’s twenty-two legions of demons is flooding through the portal, seeming to come into existence out of thin air. And they are as horrifying as Aramis’ nightmares, in the shape of a man but as if skinned, red and dripping and ropey muscles visible.  

Instinctually, Aramis uses his new wings to lift himself in the air and out of the reach of the demons.  Whether his brothers now see him as a monster or not, he has to protect them, even if that means facing his nightmares.  From the air, he begins to attack the demons with his inexplicable sword, but they continue to pour in, more and more and he knows that it’s a lost cause.  He’s too ashamed to look back at his brothers, afraid to see their disappointment that he could not protect them from this. But out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of light.  Suddenly there is another winged creature beside him, not fully corporeal, it looks more like a sunbeam given shape, the shape of an angel. 

The angels fall into a phalanx behind him and, together, they are finally turning the tide.  Still, it feels like trying to cut down a forest. Looking to the shadows, he tries to search for the lutins.  His distraction results in a claw to his already injured left arm, but he sees Homa dart forward, straight between the sorcerer’s legs.  Homa spills black ink straight down the middle of the parchment. The portal closes and the flood of demons stops abruptly. 

Screaming in anger, the sorcerer looks down at the ruined parchment and begins to search out those responsible.  Knowing that the anger will be directed at a defenseless Fée, his friend, Aramis darts down to attack preemptively.  With a single swing, Aramis plunges his sword into the sorcerer’s chest. It takes a moment for his action to register, as he watches the life leave the man’s brown eyes, the dead weight pulling at his sword until the body slides off and onto the floor.  He has killed a man with an angelic sword. Aramis half expects God himself to strike him down right there in the cathedral. 

But when the strike comes, Aramis is not prepared.  He’s standing there like a bump on a log when suddenly Purson is there before him on his bear.  This time, the demon is not a vision, he is corporeal and dangerous. Before Aramis can move, the bear has swiped out a paw, claws like knives as they tear into his throat.  

After a lifetime of being shot and stabbed, Aramis is familiar with the burning pain that tears at him and blurs his vision.  But as he begins to collapse, he is also choking on what feels to be boiling oil. The weight of his wings are suddenly unwelcome, as they drag him down to the stone floor.  

Porthos has been staring in awe since Aramis manifested wings unexpectedly.  Most of the possessed humans simply dropped when the portal opened and the monstrous forms suddenly appeared.  The Musketeers can only stare. It’s like watching a battle of heaven at the dawn of time as Aramis’ aloft form is joined by other angels.  The Musketeers are only observers. They aren’t even a part of this battle for the souls of men and Porthos frowns at the implication that he will never be able to really be a part of Aramis’ life even knowing the other man’s secrets.  

And then Aramis is attacked.  He’s running even before Aramis has hit the ground, his magnificent wings fanning out behind him.  In the time it takes for Porthos to drop to his knees, it seems a bathtub of blood has flowed out of Aramis.  Red covers Aramis’ chest, the stone beneath him, and the closest feathers, it has spattered on his face and is pooled in the hollows of his throat.  Porthos doesn’t know what to do, where he can touch the other man. His right hand goes beneath that curly haired skull, cradling it, trying to offer what comfort he can though he’s too afraid to press on the actual wound.  

“God, no,” Porthos begins to cry, fidgeting with indecision.  “Aramis, please, don’t leave me, not now, not like this…”

He barely notices when an angel kneels down across Aramis’ body from him.  Aramis has gone still, the desperate breaths that shook his chest have slowed and his dark eyes are simply fixed on Porthos as a line of blood runs slowly from the corner of his mouth.  Porthos can’t look away so he almost misses when a hand seemingly made of light and shadows reaches for Aramis’ throat and then disappears. 

Nothing happens.  Aramis still breathes slowly, the blood still stains everything around them.  The light doesn’t leave Aramis’ brown eyes. 

Porthos gasps as he realizes that Aramis is still living.  Aramis blinks long lashes and a hand twitches and then reaches for Porthos’ leathers.  Porthos catches the hand, covered in blood like everything else and clutches it to his heaving chest.  Then Aramis tries to sit up and suddenly Athos and d’Artagnan are there to help. Their friend is rather heavier than usual, the soaked feathers dragging behind him.  

“Are these permanent?” d’Artagnan asks, unable to resist trailing one finger down a still white feather.  

“I’ve no idea,” Aramis says, but he doesn’t meet their eyes.  He keeps his eyes averted down and to the side. 

They’re all too stunned to notice, staring at Aramis and touching him to reassure themselves that he is not a dream, that he’s alive, that the wings are real.  Porthos fists his hands in Aramis’ shirt, unable to unclench his fingers, not after how close he was to losing the other man.

In desperation, he leans his face against Aramis’ cheek.  “Aramis...thank God.”

“Quite literally, in this case,” Aramis teases, but his wings lift a little higher from their drooping state.  Porthos internally smirks at this new tell. “But now...everyone will see. They’ll see me...they’ll look at me like you did.”

Porthos doesn’t understand, but he automatically resists when Aramis tries to shakes off Porthos’ hand.  Porthos’ grip is too tight. The wings begin to ruffle in irritation. 

Suddenly, the door bangs open and there’s the sharp sound of shoes clicking on the stone floor.  Automatically, the three other Musketeers move in front of their feathered comrade, but Aramis knows that their protection is suddenly unnecessary.  He almost stumbles as the weight on his back suddenly disappears. 

“What is the meaning of this?!” the Cardinal yells, gesturing at the mess in this most holy place, piles of bird and dog carcasses, destroyed pews, and a few human bodies mostly wearing red guard uniforms.  In his outrage, he focuses in on Athos standing in the center. “I sent you to find one Angel! Not destroy holy relics!”

Athos takes a regal step forward.  “Unfortunately, we didn’t find the Angel.  However,” he yells to override Richelieu’s complaints.  “However, we did track down the sorcerer and prevented him from summoning an entourage of demons.  So you’ll have to excuse us this time.”

Treville rushes in then.  “Musketeers,” he shouts, interrupting everyone.  “I’ll debrief my men, Richelieu, and fill you in later.”

With that, they begin to walk away as a group.  Porthos reaches for Aramis’ arm and does a double take as he realizes the wings are gone.  As they walk through the town in the evening twilight, disheveled and bloody and still in shock from all they’ve seen, the wings, at least, are no longer drawing attention to them.  

Treville lets out a big sigh as they approach the garrison.  “I have a feeling that I don’t want to know the story behind all of this, but I still have to hear it.”

Athos smiles enough to reopen a scratch on his cheek.  “As long as you have a bottle of wine.”

“Do I...I mean, can I..?” d’Artagnan stutters a bit, hanging back from the group, but they all know what he wants.  

“Get out of here,” Treville says.  “And you too,” he adds to the two other men who haven’t let go of each other since the cathedral.  

***************

The two lovers are entirely silent as they make their way to Aramis’ rooms.  They enter through the back kitchen to find a bathtub miraculously filled with steaming water by unseen lutins.  Porthos could get used to this, but he is distracted from that thought as Aramis begins to take off his leathers, exposing the bloody soaked clothes beneath.  It hits him all over again. Porthos has seen the miraculous. This is no longer about Aramis keeping secrets, about childhoods in brothels and unseen friends.  He has seen monsters that could eat a man whole, demons made of exotic predators, and the actual armies of hell. Aramis is an Angel, while he is just a man, inconsequential.  He can’t save Aramis from the things that he’s now seen. He hasn’t felt so helpless since his mother died, ravaged by an illness that he couldn’t see, couldn’t understand, couldn’t fight.  

“I suppose that Treville knows by now,” Aramis starts without looking up.  Finished stripping, he’s using a scrap of cloth to try to clean off the half-dried blood on his chest.  

“Yes, I suppose he does,” Porthos agrees, dismayed to see how the other man turns further away from him at his words. And in that moment, Porthos reaches a decision.  Perhaps, Aramis exists in a world that Porthos cannot touch. But Porthos will not make the mistakes of the man’s mother. She was so afraid, and she made Aramis afraid of himself and his abilities.  But Porthos has never backed away from a challenge. If he did, he would never have made it out of the gutter. 

He grabs Aramis arm and takes the cloth away, taking over the job himself.  Stoically, he rinses and watches the red spread through the basin of water. “In the tub with you, then.”

Turning back, he has to take Aramis’ arm again to make him move.  But as they sink into the hot water, Porthos releases a groan of satisfaction.  “I could get used to this,” he says, referring to their helpful lutin hosts. He splashes his face and rubs at the blood and sweat there.  

Aramis laughs, but it’s soft and low.  “Yes, well, when lutins are displeased, they let you know.”

Porthos looks up from scrubbing his face to see Aramis sitting with his arms around his knees, back to his partner.  It’s not how they normally bathe together, certainly. Sighing, Porthos dribbles a handful of water on the curve of pale back.  He runs his hands over skin where wings had burst forth, miraculously. 

“Can you bring them forth again?” Porthos asks.  

“I have no idea,” Aramis says, bitterly.  “I didn’t mean for them to appear, and I don’t know how they disappeared.”

Porthos leans forward to kiss the soft skin just inside a bony shoulder blade.  Aramis tilts his face at the touch, and then turns around to look at the other man.  “Porthos, you are a wonder.” 

“You’re an Angel,” Porthos says, tasting the words on his lips as he lays back against the lip of the tub.  “I’m the lucky one.”

There’s a wave of water as Aramis suddenly moves forward to lay on Porthos’ chest.  “Don’t,” he whispers fiercely. “You are worth twenty of me.”

Porthos smiles a bit sadly as he wraps his arms around his lover, holding the other man on top of him.  “We’re a pair. I suppose we’ll fight about it for years yet.”

Aramis agrees as he veritably melts on top of the other man.  Then he stretches his long neck to place a kiss on the edge of Porthos’ jaw and then another on his chin.  Porthos’ smile becomes more joyous as he reaches his arms down to cup the round globes of Aramis’ ass. Aramis bites a little and begins rocking his hips, causing little ripples in the water that are dangerously close to the lip of the tub.  

“Don’t get water all over my floor!” the disembodied voice yells at them.  

They’re both shocked, but then Aramis begins to giggle.  “Wait, are they watching all the time?” Porthos asks. 

\----------------------------

Meanwhile back at the garrison, Treville is downing a glass of wine and hastily pouring another while Athos looks on in humor.  

“So where is this book?  Can’t have a bunch of Angels or demons running around,” Treville asks as he gulps his second glass.  

Atho stills, becoming rigid with sudden realization.  He never saw hide nor hair of the actual Grimoire. But Treville is right, they still have a supernatural problem on their hands and that knowledge has him throwing back his own glass of wine as well. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a kinkmeme prompt, though it doesn't follow the prompt exactly.  
> "Every so often, new Angels get send down to walk the Earth. This is so they can gain a form with which they can interact with humans when needed later. (I imagine they are just balls of light in their natural forms.)  
> They live out this life as human, not knowing what they really are.  
> For some reason, the church has discovered there are 3 of these walking Angels in France and want help from the king and his Musketeers to track them down so they can live out sheltered lives away from harm and bad influences.  
> The church informs the king of the signs, subtle as they are that will give the walking angel away.  
> The thing is, these angels are often attracted to suffering. What better way to understand the human nature then to experience the worst of it? While they are often born into good circumstances, so they live to adulthood, these walking angels often find themselves in risky lives.  
> One they find as a prostitute. The second, something bad like a bandit? Possibly in prison.  
> And the third, they can’t ignore the signs even though they want to, seems to be Aramis. Who remains blissfully unaware as they search for the angels.  
> What do they do? They don’t want Aramis to go, and surely he would be unhappy to."


End file.
